


The Third Blink

by goldendiie



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: 1960s, Backstory, Humanized, M/M, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2020-05-15 09:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19292746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldendiie/pseuds/goldendiie
Summary: What starts as an experimental fling in the Summer of Love quickly derails into something larger as ex-marine Sarge and anti-war activist Fillmore are caught in the decline of Route 66 amid the social transformation of the late 1960s. (AU. Humanized.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains drug use and implied sexual content. If you are uncomfortable with either of these subjects, I highly suggest not reading. Additionally, this is a work of historical fiction; any and all relation to real people are pure coincidence unless indicated otherwise.

It was too hot. That was all Sarge thought of this heat wave. Temperatures were projected to be in the high 90s and low 100s... That was just too goddamn hot. 

The drive out to the town had been a figurative hell. His military-issue Jeep (older than him, to say the least--he’d heard it had been used in the Belgian front of the second World War) was painfully lacking any sort of air conditioning, forcing him to roll down the windows. However, even that offered little relief from the prison of his olive-drab dress uniform, which clung to him uncomfortably. The weather alone made him regret coming out here.

Finding the festival wasn’t hard. There were cars parked in the desert for what seemed like miles, many of which were painted in psychedelic themes of love and war. His Jeep stood out among them all, its star and serial number seeming horribly out of place amidst the arsenal of acid buses and hotbox beaters.

Underneath a massive butte sat the crowd: topless women, men with flowers in their hair, and tie-dyed individuals. Someone played that horrible music--the whine of electric guitar matched with the tempo-lacking drums--over a car radio, and it echoed throughout the valley. Some danced along, some smoked, and some sat languidly around doing nothing in particular.

_ Maybe it’s for the best,  _ Sarge mused, taking off his aviators and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. Someone could get hurt in all of this heat. Though, maybe that would give them a wake up call. If someone were to get hurt, then maybe they’d go home. 

Sarge descended into the cesspool of humanity, immediately taking notice of the overwhelming smell of pot. It seemed like there wasn’t a single person who was sober. A part of him hoped that they’d take notice of him quickly; he was wearing a military uniform, after all, and didn’t these people hate the military? Yet somehow, he just blended in with the humidity of the crowd.

A hand landed on his shoulder, effectively preventing him from going any further. “You seem a little lost, soldier,” a man’s voice said as he was spun around. “What brings someone like you to join our ranks?” 

Sarge’s eyes were met with that of a hippie with shaggy brown hair and a daisy tucked behind his ear. He bared his teeth in something of a grin, though it seemed more mocking than friendly. 

Sarge brushed his hand off his shoulder. “I’m not here to join you,” he spat indignantly. “I’m here to--”

“Woah, man,” the hippie interrupted, once again replacing his hand on Sarge’s shoulder. “You’re here to shut us down, aren’t ya?”

“Yes.” Sarge picked up the hand and flung it back at the hippie. “And it’s in your best interest to cooperate, or--”

“Or what?”

_ “Or, _ I might have to call in reinforcements.” The threat was meaningless. There were no reinforcements to be called. Just him, and whatever police were back in the town.

The hippie laughed, long and drawn-out. Still mocking, still resentful. “Did Sheriff put you up to this?” he asked, putting his hand on Sarge’s shoulder for the third time. “Go on home, soldier, we aren’t gonna leave.”

A small crowd had gathered around them. People had begun to take notice of the black sheep in their midst. Sarge pulled his collar from his neck. It was getting hard to breathe, maybe his tie was too tight...

“Listen here,” he said, plucking the hand off his shoulder and watching it fall limply back to the hippie’s side. “I don’t care if this is a demonstration or a be-in or what, you folks need to go home before--” He swallowed, wondering vaguely why it was getting harder and harder for him to think clearly. “Before someone gets hurt.”

The hippie was getting aggravated. “No one’s  _ going  _ to get hurt.” He’d dropped the hazy tone from his voice in favor of a stronger, more lucid bite. 

“Well, then I suggest you speak to--to the Sheriff about that.” Sarge fought his way through the sentence. It was getting harder to think, speak clearly. Something had muddled his mind, slowing him down and slurring his words. “Do you have a permit? O--rr are you out here illegally?”

The universe seemed to rock on a pendulum. Was it an earthquake? His imagination? Or the secondhand pot smoke that reddened his eyes and made it hard to breathe? The dark spots in his vision were encroaching further into the center. 

“We applied for a permit, but--woah--”

Sarge passed out, inky black taking over his vision in one swift motion, and the excess noise of the world fading into obscurity.

He woke to the sound of argument and the bright-white light above him. For a moment,  he toyed with the possibility that he might be dead. He’d read somewhere that people saw a light when they died… That’s nonsense, he thought as he forced himself to sit up. He doubted that heaven was a hospital, nor that the angels might bicker so much.    
  
“-- _ told  _ you that something would happen!”   
  
“Peace, Sheriff, it’s not my fault the dude showed up wearing four layers of clothing.”   
  
At the foot of the hospital bed stood a face that Sarge recognized: Cpl. Sherman, Military Police. Sherman was the whole reason he was here in the first place, he was the one who’d called begging for his help  _ (“There’s hundreds of ‘em, all just… out there, in the desert,”  _ he’d said, perplexed.  _ “It’s dangerous. Someone could get hurt, and I don’t want to do that paperwork...).  _ He stood arguing vehemently with one of those hippie-types, gesturing exasperatedly as he talked. The hippie looked considerably young, and had shaggy brown hair with a daisy tucked behind his ear… Sarge nearly groaned aloud as he recognized the hippie he’d argued with back at the festival.

In one quick, mind-numbing blink of the eye, he remembered what had happened in its entirety: the music, the pot, the argument with the peacenik, and blacking out for some unknown reason. With a strange realization, it came upon him that his uniform was missing, leaving him in just his white undershirt and olive-drab slacks. Suddenly feeling very exposed and uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and the two aggressors turned their eyes on him.

“Oh, thank goodness, you’re awake,” Sherman sighed in relief, expression quickly changing from annoyance to concern. With a weary chuckle, he added, “Thought you’d never wake up.”

“Can’t kill me that easily,” Sarge returned, now painfully aware of how dry his mouth was. 

Sherman huffed in a sort of laugh, before: “I better go get Doc, he wanted to talk to you before he lets you go.” He turned his attention back to the hippie and frowned slightly. “You stay here. We’ll talk later.”

The hippie huffed edgily as Sherman rushed out, before turning his eyes on Sarge. “I knew you were with the Sheriff,” he grunted, as though he’d uncovered the answer to a grand conspiracy.

“I thought I’d made that clear.” 

The hippie shrugged. “Maybe you did, maybe you didn't. Doesn’t matter now, the whole thing’s getting shut down.” He barked the same mocking, resentful laugh. “I’m glad that you’re alright, though. When I was drivin’ you back out here, I was scared you were a goner, man.”

Sarge gaped. “You brought me here?” 

The hippie looked at him strangely. “...Yeah?”

Sarge turned it over in his mind, grappling with the fact. “Thank you,” he said quickly. “If you ever need anything, uh--”

“Don’t bother with any of that,” the hippie said, batting a hand at him as if to shoo the sentiment away. “I was just doing my part as a citizen of this planet.” 

Sarge accepted it. It seemed that was the only sentiment the hippie would offer about it. The room devolved into vaguely uncomfortable silence, the only sound being the beeping of the heart monitor. 

“Can I get your name, soldier?” the hippie asked suddenly. “I want to know who you are.”

“Sarge,” he replied in a half-stupor ,offering his hand to shake. “And you are…?”

“Fillmore.” The hippie shook his hand, before re-crossing his arms. “So, Sarge… Is that some kind of nickname?”

“I--er--I suppose you could say that,” Sarge replied. “That’s the most anyone ever calls me anymore.”

“Really?” Fillmore raised an eyebrow. “So, what’s your real name, then?”

Before Sarge could answer, the door burst open once again and Sherman (or, rather, Sheriff) re-entered, this time followed by a young man in a navy-blue summer shirt--perhaps in his mid-thirties--with dark hair pushed back over his head and striking blue eyes covered by horn-rimmed glasses. He had that kind of face that Sarge would swear he’d seen before, like a celebrity on television or in a magazine. 

“Good to see you’re awake,” the man said, approaching the bed. He handed Sarge a small plastic cup of water and gestured for him to drink it. “It’s not too much to worry about--just heat stroke.”

“Well, that’s good,” Sarge replied. The cool water hitting his throat was a blessing. “I take it you’re Doc?”

“Yes, sir, the one and only.”

It seemed that Doc had the cocky personality to match his looks. “It’s a good thing that Fillmore brought you to me,” Doc said. “I’m not sure anyone out there would’ve known how to handle the situation.”

“That would probably be right,” Sheriff agreed.

It was quiet for half a moment, in which Sheriff and Doc exchanged glances with each other. It seemed Fillmore hadn’t noticed the obvious dig at his festival, as he continued to examine his hands like nothing had happened.

“So!” Doc said, in a clear attempt to diffuse the situation. “I suggest you go right on home and get some rest. And, Christ’s sake, don’t wear a full suit in this kind of weather.” He winked. “Doctor’s orders.”

Fillmore snickered, and Sheriff shot him a frown.

“No, I--er--won’t make that mistake again,” Sarge affirmed. 

Just as quickly as he had woken up in the infirmary, he was ushered back out. Sarge was returned his suit, though he opted not to put it back on. Sheriff lead him out, and, for whatever reason, Fillmore followed.

“I’ll take you back to your car…” Sheriff said, taking a key out of his pocket. 

“I’ll do it,” Fillmore volunteered. “I have to go back that way, anyways.” 

“Fillmore, I  _ told  _ you--”

“Don’t sweat it, man,” Fillmore interrupted. “I’ll tell everyone to go home. They’ll be gone by morning.”

Sheriff huffed, but allowed it. “They’ll listen to you more than they’ll listen to me, anyways,” he grumbled, before going back inside. 

Sarge followed Fillmore to a lot beside the infirmary. He, unsurprisingly, drove one of those horribly-painted Volkswagen buses; it was likely green when he’d bought it, though the majority of it had been coated in hippie-dippie swirls and flowers and bumper stickers. On one side, the word “PEACE” was written in large bubble lettering. 

“Are you coming or what?” Fillmore called as he turned the key in the ignition.

Sarge quickly got in the passenger side door, noticing that the interior was just as awful as the exterior. Beads hung from the rear view mirror, and there were flowers and a few crystals on the dashboard. The back of the bus had been completely gutted; in place of any seats, there was a bean bag and a few pillows tossed haphazardly on the ground. 

As Fillmore pulled out of the lot, Sarge couldn’t help but ask, “Do you live in here?”

“Nah, man, I live here in town.” Fillmore gestured to an equally garish geodome a few lots down from the infirmary. “That’s my pad.”

“I’m not surprised.” 

“Oh, and what about you?” Fillmore bit. “D’you live on a military base?”

“Yes, I do.”

“ _ I’m not surprised _ ,” he mocked. “Roll down your window, wouldja?”

Sarge shook his head in mild annoyance, and did what he was asked.

“So, uh…” Fillmore began, his tone obviously implying that he was trying to make small talk. “You ever been to San Francisco?”

“God, no,” Sarge scoffed. He’d heard of the kinds of people who lived in San Francisco… It was a hive for drug addicts and runaways; a revolutionary monster that preached the word  _ Free! Free! Free!  _

“You really oughta. It’d do someone like you a lot of good,” he said, nodding in agreement with himself. “You know, I went to college out there. Good time.”

“Explains a lot…” Sarge trailed off. “How old are you, anyways?”

“Nineteen,” Fillmore replied. “Twenty next March. I’m a Pisces.”

“Nineteen!” Sarge exclaimed, flabbergasted. “What, did you drop out, or something?”

“Uh-huh, sure did.”

He sat silently, struggling to find something to reply with. _Nineteen, dropped out of school…_ _That would make him eligible for the draft…_ Sarge’s eyebrows knit together with this realization. For whatever reason, something about it didn’t sit right with him. 

“Well, what about you?” Fillmore asked, startling him out of his thoughts. “How old are you?”

“Uh--twenty-three.” Sarge was still stunned.

“Far out, man.”

Fillmore put the bus into park, startling him into the realization that they’d made it back to the festival. The Jeep was a few dozen yards away. 

“Yeah, anyways, you should go to San Francisco,” Fillmore reprised. “Whole lotta love out there, you know?”

“I’ll pass, thank you,” Sarge replied. 

It got quiet, except for the low hum of the bus’s engine and the sound of wind over the butte. The sun was just beginning to set, casting pink and orange strands across the deepening blue sky. Sarge thought he should leave, get out of there before the conversation restarted, but he found that suddenly he didn’t really want to move.

“Cigarette?” 

Fillmore was holding an open carton out towards him, one already hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Sarge declined, and Fillmore shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, pulling a Zippo from his pocket and lighting his own.

“So, how do you know Sheriff, anyways?” Fillmore asked, puffing smoke out of his mouth as he talked. “You seemed tight with him earlier.”

“Oh, Sherman? He was an MP in Vietnam back in ‘63.” Sarge said nonchalantly. 

“Sheriff’s been to Vietnam?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Sarge sighed. “I wouldn’t ask him about it, though. Not much happened to us, we were just advisors.”

“So you enlisted?” 

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The question took Sarge by surprise, so he struggled to answer: “We-ll, uh, my parents were in the war when they were younger… So I suppose I was carrying on the tradition.”

Fillmore hummed in response, something that was a cross between “mm-hm,” and “uh-huh.” Either way, it sounded distasteful. “So I suppose you think that the war is a good thing?"

“I wouldn’t say that.” 

“What would you say, then?”

Something about this stuck Sarge as odd. Why was he so adamant about knowing his political views? It wasn’t exactly necessary for them to get to know each other… He responded, although somewhat cautiously: “I think it’s pointless. It’s just attrition, at this point.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Sarge can feel Fillmore’s eyes on him. He doesn’t look back. 

“Why don’t you leave the military, then? If you don’t support the war, and all…”

“I won’t get out until my contract ends.”

It was silent again, the air filled with nothing but the crickets and the distant sound of music. The festival was still going strong, even in Fillmore’s absence. 

“I should probably get going,” Sarge said, somehow reluctant. “I was supposed to be back hours ago.”

“Wait, hey--” Fillmore said quickly, “You never told me what your real name is.”

Sarge looked at him for a moment. His eyes were brown, he noticed, and there was still a daisy in his hair. The evening had softened him into a reflection of his age; it was incredibly clear now, just how young he was. He saw no harm in telling him, especially when he looked so earnest.

“It’s Willie,” Sarge said, and Fillmore glowed. 

“ _ Willie, _ ” he repeated, grinning. “I like it. But I think I like ‘Sarge,’ more. It has a better ring to it, y’know?”

Sarge shrugged. “Doesn’t matter much to me.” He gathered his suit reluctantly, somehow not yet willing to leave. “I really ought to go.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Fillmore looked a little sad as he flicks his cigarette out the window. “You’re an alright dude, Sergeant. Didn’t expect that.”

“You’re tolerable.”  

Fillmore laughed. Sarge gathered his suit in his arms and started to get out of the bus. 

“Hey--hold on a sec.” Fillmore said, now leaning forward as though he were going to stop him from leaving. “I really meant that, man. You’re alright.”

He was watching him earnestly, his eyes filled with something that Sarge couldn’t really place (and, if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t really want to know). So, he just laughed and shook his head. “Goodnight, Fillmore,” he said, still smiling as he got out. 

“See you later…Sarge.”

As he set off into the night, he cast a glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, Fillmore was still watching him, one arm thrown over the seat. He waved over his shoulder, and continued on. Sarge chuckled as he turned away. He was a strange guy, granted, but… there was something about him. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but lingered on the edge of his mind. Something different. 


	2. Chapter 2

_ “Listen, Sarge, I’m just asking you to come back for the holiday! It’d be nice to actually catch up, and I bet getting away from the Army for a bit would do you some good…”  _

Sarge wasn’t really listening anymore. Sherman had called again, asking him to come back for the Fourth of July.  _ There’s this big celebration, with the best fireworks in Carburetor County!  _ Admittedly, he was tempted.

_ “Oh, Fillmore wants me to tell you that it would be ‘cool to see you again.’”  _

With a start, Sarge remembered that  _ yes, Fillmore lived there too. _ He’d faded back into obscurity as fast as they had gotten to know one another. Back into the realm of psychedelics and cigarette smoke in which he was a constant, back into the universe that Sarge just couldn’t understand… He wondered why on earth Fillmore had liked him so much. They’d only known each other for a quiet, undedicated moment.    


_ “So, whaddya say?”  _ Sherman sounded expectant. 

“Yeah. Okay,” Sarge replied, nodding to himself. “That sounds good.” 

“ _ See you Saturday, then _ .” 

“Saturday,” Sarge echoed. The calendar on his wall disagreed; the fourth wasn’t until next Tuesday, however, Sherman had insisted he come for the weekend.

The town was as unremarkable as Sarge remembered: like any other tourist trap along Route 66, complete with picture-perfect storefronts and friendly townsfolk. He pulled into the local motel-- the Cozy Cone-- late Saturday evening, driving the same jeep he’d gotten stuck with a few weeks earlier. 

The room he rented was small, painted orange with a matching duvet and curtains. The reason for a cone-themed motel was beyond him… but it was cheap and surprisingly nice, so he figured not to question it too much. He met up with the Sheriff at the local diner-- Flo’s-- following his check-in at the Cozy Cone. Sheriff looked better than the last time Sarge saw him: less stressed, presumably due to the departure of the festival. 

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for coming ‘round a couple weeks ago,” Sheriff said, peering at him over his cup of decaf coffee. 

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Sarge replied, “More interesting than paperwork, at any rate.”

“Ending up in the clinic isn’t  _ trouble _ to you?” Sheriff laughed, “Anyways, you were a huge help. Those beats were gone by morning.”

“Good,” Sarge replied, taking a sip of his own coffee. 

Sheriff was quiet for a moment, staring down into his drink. “I heard you and Fillmore got off well.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” 

“Why not?” Sheriff grinned lightly, “There’s nothing wrong with it, Sarge. He’s a good kid.” 

“He’s a damn peacenik.”

“Yes, well…” Sheriff sighed, “He’s a good kid either way.”

It became ultimately clear that Fillmore had spoken well of him in the weeks following the incident at the festival. Why, Sarge had no idea. They barely knew each other…

He and Sheriff chatted a while longer, reminiscing about their days in the military and sharing their own exploits since. Sarge found it in him to recount the story of a private during his second tour, who had brought polaroid photos of his girlfriend and would show them off whenever he could. “The photos were reflective,” he said. “Nearly got his head blown off one time. He was lucky to make it through his tour in one piece.”

Sheriff nodded solemnly. “Some of the kids they send over there… Well, they’re not too bright.”

“And they don’t  _ want  _ to be there in the first place,” Sarge added. 

They fell into a strange, almost condolatory silence. 

“I ought to get back to work,” Sheriff said, draining the rest of his coffee, “You’re welcome to come, if you like. I’m just going out by the sign with my speed gun… Might pick up a few kids tonight.”

“I’ll pass, Sheriff” Sarge replied, “I might just head back to the motel and get some rest.”

“Another time, then?” Sheriff offered. 

“Another time,” Sarge agreed. 

They bid their farewells as Sheriff exited the diner, getting into his police cruiser and speeding off. Sarge threw a couple bills on the table and left shortly after, fully planning on heading back to the motel and going to bed. It had been a long day… 

“Heya, soldier.”

Fillmore stood leaning against the diner, a half-smoked cigarette poised a few inches from his mouth. He looked almost exactly as Sarge had remembered, with that floppy brown hair and thick eyebrows that made his eyes nothing more than black ovals. “It’s been a while.”

“Three weeks is hardly a while,” Sarge countered, approaching him.

“Enough for something to change.” Fillmore looked him up and down, taking another pull off of his cigarette. “You look better than the last time I saw you.” 

“How so?”

“More color in the face, you know?” Fillmore smiled slightly, “I think it helps that you’re not wearing a full suit this time around.”

“Thanks, I uh-- It’s regulation.”

“I know, man. I’m just giving you shit.”

They stood in somewhat awkward silence, neither knowing what to say. They had only met momentarily, and even then, they hadn’t really passed into the realm of friendship. 

“Any plans for the weekend?” Fillmore asked, dropping his cigarette on the ground and crushing it with one of his dirty white Chucks. 

“None,” Sarge said, “Sheriff wanted me to come for the whole weekend, instead of just the fourth.” 

“He just wanted to visit with you,” Fillmore replied, “Considering you guys are old war buddies.”

Sarge blinked in surprise, “You remembered that?" 

Fillmore shrugged. “I dunno. Just kinda stuck with me, I guess.” He gestured, “Walk with me?”

Sarge complied, and they started off down the street. 

“So, the army.” Fillmore begins, “What’s it like?"

“Exactly how you think.” 

“Ah,” he nodded wisely, “A bunch of fuckin’ bootlickers, then.”

“Oh, please, I wouldn’t say--”

“What would you say?”

“It’s organized,” Sarge said, “Organized and diligent… and we value perfection over everything else--”

“Woah, dude,” Fillmore interrupted, “Are you a marine?”

“What? No.” 

Fillmore hummed. “That’s good.”

“What’s wrong with the marines?”

“That’s a long list, man,” Fillmore said. “Anyways, what do you think about the war?” 

“I already told you what I think about it,” Sarge replied. “I said it’s attrition.”

“Yeah, but…beyond that.” Fillmore gestured, as though he were trying to convey what he meant without words. “Like, if it's ethical and stuff.”

“Ethical?” Sarge repeated. “I think it’s perfectly ethical, in the sense--”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Fillmore held up a hand. “You did  _ not _ just say that, man.”

“I did. And it maybe it would make a little sense if you would listen to me.”

“It’s not ethical,” Fillmore insisted. “Not our fight, you know?”

“Vietnam will go to communism, if not for our intervention,” Sarge countered. “Maybe large-scale mobilization isn’t a good plan, but--”

“That’s  _ Viet-nam’s _ choice.” Fillmore interrupted, speaking as though  _ Viet-nam _ were a legitimate person (and Sarge hated how he said it like that… It was one word, not two). “Not ours, man."

“It’s a civil war, Fillmore. It’s nobody’s choice.”

“It’s the people’s choice. And if the people want communism… Well, who are we to stop them? Self-determined government, and all.”

“Yes, well, it’s our duty to preserve the free world--”

“The free world doesn't exist, and it never has.” 

“You said it yourself!” Sarge exclaimed, “Self-determined government--”

“Ahh, that’s where you’re getting tripped up, man. Self-determined government doesn’t  _ necessarily  _ mean freedom.” 

“It’s the freedom to choose government, which, in itself, is freedom. I don’t see the issue you’re having with that.”

“Well, not really the  _ freedom _ to choose government. Not when you got Uncle Sam lookin’ over your shoulder and pressuring you into a goddamn capitalist democracy.” 

“So, you think the government is just a bunch of hypocrites?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Fillmore motioned, and they started walking down the side of the road, back towards the edge of town. “Truman was a hypocrite, Eisenhower was a hypocrite, Kennedy was a hypocrite, and goddammit, Johnson is a hypocrite too.”

“What about whoever came before Truman?”

“Franklin Roosevelt? No clue. Not in my lifetime.”

“So you only care about things that happened in your lifetime?”

“That’s all that’s relevant right now… So, yes.” 

“Roosevelt is relevant. What about all those recession policies?”

“What, like all that banking stuff?” Fillmore scoffed. “That’s never gonna last, man. Roosevelt was off his shit, more than being a hypocrite.”

Sarge stared at him. "Why are you doing this?" 

"Doing what?"

"Picking fights with me."

"I like to argue," Fillmore said simply, "And you seem like a good debater." He stopped suddenly, and gestured towards that strange geodome of his. “Say, you wanna try my organic tea?” he asked, effectively ending their conversation, “I’ll hook you up, free of charge… Got, like, six flavors and any  _ additives  _ you’d like.”

Sarge almost said yes. It sounded interesting, to say the least… But, the mention of the  _ additives _ set him off. There was no question as to what it meant, and he wasn’t about to try it. “Does Sheriff know you’re mixing shrooms into that stuff?” He started walking again, and Fillmore followed.

“No,” Fillmore said. “And technically, I don’t. It’s just for special customers, you know?” He had the nerve to wink at him, which was followed by a giddy laugh. 

“Maybe another time.” Sarge replied. “Not tonight.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Fillmore laughed again, “I’m gonna get you to try it eventually.”

This time, they stopped just outside the Cozy Cone Motel, standing underneath the technicolor glow of the town’s neon lights. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Fillmore said, though it sounded more like a question.

“Yeah, uh… Tomorrow.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment, Sarge shifting his weight from one foot to another. One of them had to say something, they couldn’t just leave it at that…

“Well!” Sarge nearly exclaimed, “Goodnight, then.”

Fillmore sort of twitched, as though he was going to walk away, but didn’t move otherwise. Strange discomfort began to grow in the back of his spine. He took one quick step backwards, one hand landing on the doorknob. “Goodnight!” he repeated, attempting to open it. It, unfortunately, seemed to be stuck.

Fillmore finally seemed to recognize how horribly awkward it had become. He half-gasped, and returned: “Uh… Goodnight, man.”

Sarge forced the door open. “Goodnight, Fillmore.”

“Goodnight.”

The sun rose slowly two mornings later, overtaking the early morning with that kind of cool humidity that makes your fingers stick together. Sarge woke when the new day’s sunlight graced his face. He grunted as he rolled over in the bed, burying his face in the pillow. Independence Day, 1967. 

He dragged himself out of bed and stretched slowly, yawning as he did. The air conditioner kicked on, dousing him in a blissful wash of cold air and quite effectively waking him up. He trudged the short distance to the bathroom and turned on the shower, before glancing at his reflection in the dusty mirror.

Something about the town had changed him, that was for damn sure. He saw the same person he always did--same short, blonde hair, brown eyes, toned form--but somehow, he’d grown to mirror the summer. He looked content, happy, sunkissed from the summer heat. Maybe Sheriff was right about getting away from the military, how it would do him some good. 

His weekend was spent in anticipation of today, and (for some reason) he found himself dreading it. Maybe it was because everyone had hyped it up so much… Or, maybe it was because it was the last day he would spend in town. Come to think of it, that was probably the reason; during his stay, Radiator Springs had really grown on him. 

He’d met the other residents around town in passing. There were Luigi and Guido, who owned a designer shoe store across from Ramone’s tattoo parlor; there was Red, the town’s only fireman who never seemed to talk and always stuck around Stanley; and then there was Mater, Sheriff’s nephew who had moved to town not three months earlier. They were all eccentric in their own right, but also incredibly kind. An entire town filled with nothing but good-willed people was a gem to come by. 

Except, maybe, for Fillmore… He was up to something. Sarge was sure of that much. Fillmore had followed him around like a lost puppy for his entire stay in Radiator Springs-- always trying to make plans with him or have him over for drinks. He truly didn’t understand why the hippie had taken such a liking to him in the first place… 

Sarge blinked, suddenly realizing that he’d spent the past few minutes zoning out. He shook his head and continued with his routine: shower, shave, dress, and go down to Flo’s for coffee. Over the past few days, that had been ingrained in his routine, quickly becoming a highlight of his mornings. He enjoyed being around the townsfolk, coexisting with them. He found himself in a booth near the door, content to sit alone and drink his coffee. Though, his solitude didn’t last long-- it wasn’t ten minutes until Fillmore slid into the seat across from his.

“Morning, Sergeant,” he said, settling down. “Looking as lovely as usual.”

Sarge glared at him over his coffee. Such off color remarks had become common, especially in the past few days. “Good morning.”

Fillmore seemed unfazed by his demeanor. “Any plans?”

“None.” Sarge replied, “Yourself?”

“Working, man.” Fillmore sighed heavily. “Always gotta stay open, even though it’s a national holiday?”

“It’s not terrible,” Sarge countered, “You’re making a little extra money.”

“Yeah, but… At what cost?” Fillmore watched him, as though he was expecting a laugh. “Anyways, how ‘bout you come around today? You still owe me a drink.”

Sarge considered it for a moment, somewhat hating himself for his inability to say  _ no _ . He’d dodged Fillmore’s attempts to make plans this far, always saying something like “another time,” but… It didn’t really matter what he decided to do, because he knew Fillmore would follow him regardless. “Sure. Okay,” he replied. 

They ate their breakfast together and returned back to the Taste In. Fillmore held the beaded curtain open as he entered, and Sarge was promptly assaulted by exactly what he would have expected the interior of the dome to look like. There was a counter that guarded a row of taps, all labeled with various flavors. In the corner, a turntable with its needle still in the grooves of an LP. There were lava lamps and incense and protest flyers and pins… an embodiment of the hippie-culture. 

“Uh, can you sit tight for a sec?” Fillmore said, snapping Sarge out of his daze. “I gotta grab something real quick.”

Fillmore disappeared through another beaded curtain presumably leading to his living space. Not a moment later, he returned with a crate of vinyl records in his arms. 

“What kind of music d’you listen to?” he asked, setting the crate on the counter and rifling through it.

“I don’t really listen to any music,” Sarge replied. 

“Hm. Suit yourself.” Fillmore shrugged. “How do you feel about Hendrix?”

“Never heard ‘em.”

A wide grin split across Fillmore’s face. “You’ll like it.” He quickly switched out the records, sliding the old one back into its sleeve and replacing it with another bright purple disc. The turntable crackled to life, and blared out the first few notes of the tune. “This one’s called  _ Purple Haze,” _ Fillmore said over the noise, watching Sarge for any opinions.

It wasn’t terrible. But it wasn’t good, either. To Sarge, it may as well have been white noise. “Can you turn it down?” he asked over the cacophony. The guitar was met with drums and bass, crescendoing further. Fillmore turned it down, thankfully. The lyrics seemed to echo over top the chorus, not exactly mixing in the way he would think. It was different, to say the least. Sarge found a seat on a dark-orange armchair in the corner of the room, opting to listen to the music rather than comment on it. 

They were three or four songs in  _ (is this love, baby? or is this just confusion…)  _ before a potential customer entered the store. Fillmore hopped off of the counter and greeted them quickly. 

“Hey, what’s up?” he said in a strange attempt at a customer service voice. “What brings ya in today?”

The woman must have been in her late teens, perhaps around Fillmore’s age. “Oh--um--nothing, really.” She smiled shyly. “Just passing through, I think. Your dome caught my eye and I thought I’d stop in and see…” She trailed off, gesturing around the place. 

It was interesting to watch Fillmore interact with a customer. He was the same, sure, gesturing and talking like he always did… But there was a change somewhere in there. Like a switch that told him to play a part and act a certain way. Dial up the charm, maybe, and add a slight drawl to his voice. 

Whatever it was seemed to work. The woman walked out with a jar of that organic-whatever. As soon as she was out the door (or, rather, beaded curtain), Fillmore returned to normal. “One down,” he said, resuming his spot on the counter. “God knows how many more to go.”

Sarge laughed, but quickly stifled it. He hadn’t meant to laugh, but… Something about his tone was humorous. Like he was malcontented with his position, even though he seemed perfectly happy. 

Fillmore was staring at him, a small smile plastered to his face. “I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh before.”

Sarge cleared his throat. “Don’t get used to it.” 

“No worries,” Fillmore replied, then sarcastically adding: “It must be a serious transgression for a big bad military sergeant like yourself to even  _ think _ about lightening up once in a while.”

Sarge couldn’t help himself. He chuckled as he spoke: “Oh, for sure. I’ll get my ass kicked.”

“And who has the honor of doing that?”

“President Johnson, I think.”

This time, it was Fillmore’s turn to laugh. He giggled nearly uncontrollably, in the sense that he would eventually stop, only to start again a few moments later (even despite the fact that the joke was mediocre at best). When he finally regained his composure, he returned: “I don’t think LBJ could kick anyone’s ass, man. He’s too old.” He giggled again. “Especially not yours, dude. If anything you’d kick  _ his _ ass.”

Before Sarge could reply, the beaded curtain opened once again. In walked a tall, blonde longhair wearing a rather large sun hat. Fillmore once again hopped off the counter to greet him, but seemed to recognize him.

“Hey, man!” he said, “Long time, no see!” 

“Fillmore!” the man exclaimed. “How’ve you been, dude?”

They chatted excitedly for a moment, the longhair sharing the news from out west (though, it really couldn’t be considered news, when the longhair was mostly concerned with those “digger fucks” and their free society). They got to business quickly, however, and Fillmore got to fixing the man his drink.

As the transaction was proceeding, the longhair leaned conspicuously over the counter and loudly whispered, “You know where I can get some pot?” He giggled, and added, “Some friends of mine and I are goin’ out to Tailfin Pass tonight to smoke. You’re welcome to join us if you want.”

To Sarge’s surprise, Fillmore smiled politely. “No thanks, man, I already got plans,” he said, making eye contact with him from across the room. “As for the stuff, I couldn’t tell ya. Sheriff keeps this town pretty clean, man."

The longhair shrugged, and replied, “Alright, dude. See you around.” He then promptly left, rejoining his friends outside.

“A friend of yours?” Sarge questioned as the beaded curtain fell back into place. 

“Somethin’ like that,” Fillmore replied, sitting back down. “I bunked with him for a while back when I was living in California.” 

“Wonder what he’s doing out here.”

“Looking for a good time, I guess.” Fillmore smiled mischievously, “He probably knew I was lying.” 

“Lying?”

“About not having pot.” 

Sarge opened his mouth to reply (what he would say was beyond him-- condemn him for the illegal act?), but was cut short by the opening notes of  _ Stars and Stripes Forever.  _ Down near the courthouse played Carburetor County High School’s marching band; a small group of around thirty, most of them clarinets.

“Parade’s starting.” Fillmore said.   


“Yes, I can tell.” 

The parade turned out to be not much more than the marching band and a few floats advertising various businesses from around the county.

The rest of the day was more of the same-- more passing customers, more longhairs looking for dope, more easy small talk with Fillmore. As the day grew longer, a podium was erected near the courthouse. Near seven o’clock, Sarge helped Fillmore close up shop, and together they made their way towards the growing crowd. 

Within the next fifteen minutes, Stanley strolled onto the stage, arm in arm with Lizzie. 

“Hello!” he called out to the crowd, tapping the microphone a few times. “Hello! Good evening!”

For whatever reason, people started cheering. Maybe he was a local celebrity. Stanley batted a hand at then, and continued, “The twenty-eighth of this month will mark the fortieth anniversary of our beloved town…”

Halfway through Stanley’s speech, Fillmore brushed against his arm. “Hey, come with me,” He whispered, sending a horrible, jittery feeling down his spine. Against his better judgement, Sarge obliged. Together, they pushed back through the crowds of people and out onto Main Street. 

Fillmore grabbed his hand and pulled him along and, for whatever reason, they started running-- away from the crowd and saturation of the holiday and into the lively desert. Fillmore was faster than he looked, pulling Sarge along into the growing night. For a minute, he was almost beautiful; hair tousling in the wind as he ran, a wide, happy grin plastered to his face. 

They ended up at Willy's Butte again, which was blissfully free of any canoodling couples or drunk teenagers. It was different to see it in the absence of the festival. Everything seemed larger, more concrete than it had a few weeks prior.

“I come out here to smoke, every so often,” Fillmore said, sitting down on the edge of the cliff. “It’s a pretty obvious spot… Sometimes I wonder how I haven’t been caught yet.” He laughed, though it was somewhat pained. “I think it’ll be a good place to watch the fireworks.”

It was awkwardly quiet for a moment, save for the distant music coming from town. Fillmore pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and put one between his lips. Once again, Sarge refused when offered. In one swift movement, Fillmore lit the cigarette and took a drag.

“You’re very strange to me, Sergeant,” Fillmore said suddenly, apropos of nothing.

“What?”

"It’s--Oh, I don’t know,” Fillmore replied, sighing. There was a moment’s pause in which he took a drag of his cigarette. “There’s just something about you, man…” 

In a fleeting, thrilling moment, their eyes met. “You’re different,” he finished. “You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met.”

Sarge scoffed. “That seems unlikely.”

“No way, man, I’m being serious!” Fillmore nodded vigorously, more to himself than anything. “You seem like you understand things, man. Like you’re on my wavelength.” He laughed a little, smoke puffing oddly from the corners of his mouth. “I guess I feel like we have a connection.”

“Sounds fake.”

“Well, maybe you just gotta open your mind a bit, then.” Fillmore’s heavy eyes opened, flashing burnt orange in the dying sunlight. “Y’know, see things that are right in front of your face.” He grinned crookedly. “If you could see it the way I do… Well, you’d probably be a different person.”

“How do you see it, then?” Sarge bit. “If you think your view is so  _ open-minded.” _

“I think our paths were totally meant to cross, man. Our chances of coming together were one in, like, a gazillion.” Fillmore blew smoke out of the side of his mouth, which was turned into a half-smile. “And yet, we’re here. Together. And that’s pretty groovy.”

“That doesn’t mean we have a connection.”

Fillmore shrugged, indifferent. “It’s your own opinion, man.”

They’re both silent for a moment. Sarge couldn’t help but wonder what Fillmore meant by all of that. The connection, meaning to meet each other… It was a strange notion, to say the least. He considered it for a moment, somewhat believing it. Were they meant to meet each other? Were they meant to be here, in this moment? It was plausible, maybe…

“You got a girlfriend, Sergeant?” Fillmore asked casually.

“No.”

“No?” he echoed. “No boyfriend, either?”

Sarge nearly snapped his neck as he turned to glare at him. Fillmore wasn’t looking in his direction; his head was tipped back towards the sky, smoke spilling out of his half-open mouth with the cigarette poised just above his lower lip… It was almost lascivious, in a strange way-- No, no it  _ couldn’t  _ be. It wasn’t like that at all. Fillmore was handsome, in a way, but  _ surely  _ nothing beyond that, not to him, anyways… 

Sarge finally answered, “No, I’d never…No.”

Fillmore’s eyes opened in reaction, but he didn’t answer… Sarge wanted to look away from him and end the conversation--maybe even go as far as to leave--but found he was completely unable to move. “Why are you asking?”

“Just curious,” Fillmore stated, as though he had just asked something more trivial. “I wanna know you, man.”

Sarge swallowed thickly, trying to drown out his newfound anxiety. “Maybe I don’t want to know you.”

“Well, you already followed me all the way up here… I think you want to know  _ something, _ ” Fillmore countered. “It was just a question, man.”

“Strange question to ask,” Sarge said. "Have you ever…?”

“Oh, sure,” Fillmore replied casually. “Does that bother you?”

Sarge couldn’t find it in himself to answer. He didn’t really know  _ what _ to think of it, especially when Fillmore was so outwardly casual about it. Why was he acting like this, anyways? Was there a point to messing around like this? He tore his eyes away and looked to the mesa, but it offered no advice. 

"Don't sweat it, man." Fillmore said, shattering his contemplation, "Everyone gets curious once in a while." Sarge didn't like the tone of his voice. It was too... uncharacteristically lewd. He felt Fillmore’s eyes on him, raking over every inch of him in a desperate search for  _ something _ . "Even you," he finished, sending his smoke over the cliffside. 

Sarge looked back at him, half furious. "What's your point, hippie?" he half-growled, almost ready to lunge at him. This was indecent, and he didn’t like the feeling that rested behind his gut and below his heart. He suddenly felt very warm, and he knew his face was flushed with something like embarrassment. 

“My point,” Fillmore said contemplatively. “Do I really need one?”

“After that, I would think so!” 

Fillmore shrugged. “Alright. My point is that  _ you’re  _ curious.” He leaned in, somehow passing it off as incidental in the conversation. “Maybe you don’t swing with folks like me, but you want to know what it’s like.”    


This… this couldn’t be happening. There was no way. Sarge would never… He simply  _ couldn’t.  _ It was wrong, and not to mention  _ illegal…  _ well, not technically, not anymore--but it was still completely immoral, for Christ’s sake!

“You’re wrong,” Sarge uttered, somehow finding it in himself to put distance between them. “I’m not… I would  _ never _ be…”

“Most everyone is, though,” Fillmore countered. “It’s just the institution has brainwashed us to think that everything needs to be one man, one woman…”

Sarge half-laughed. “I’m not going to argue with you about my own goddamn sexual alignment.”

“No offense, man, but you don’t really seem sure of yourself when you say you aren’t.”

“Look me in the eye, and I’ll tell you again.” Sarge glared at him expectantly, waiting for Fillmore to inevitably turn his way. When he did… his heart leapt into his throat. His eyes, so inquisitive and sharp, flecked with orange and gold and everything warm he’d ever seen or heard… A revolution raged behind them, staring back at him defiantly. “I’m not…” For some god-forsaken reason, he found he was unable to finish the sentence. Fillmore was so close, lips parted slightly, a knowing look gracing his features.

“You’re not sure,” Fillmore finished.

Part of him wanted to argue, just to see those eyes sparkle again with that knowing energy, that defiance. “Queer,” Sarge corrected shakily. “I’m not queer.” 

Fillmore hummed disappointedly, turning away. “Alright, man,” he said disbelievingly, as though he were challenging him to prove it.

The cliff grew silent. Sarge felt the urge to leave, return to the safe normalcy of the town, but found he was unable to move beyond shifting slightly. The idea was in his head, now, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to  _ be  _ with another man… 

“If I was, though,” he said quickly. “What would-- What would that mean?”

Fillmore had the nerve to laugh. “Man, you’re  _ so  _ deep in denial--”

“Answer the question.”

“It would mean anything you want,” Fillmore said. “Make your own peace with it, or seek enlightenment with others… if you catch my drift.”

Sarge, unfortunately, caught his drift. He felt stuck, phasing between his universe and the next; familiarity versus something foreign, something more than daunting. It wouldn’t hurt to  _ try _ it… He probably wouldn’t like it, anyways, and Fillmore was practically offering to… Well, not exactly offering  _ anything _ , more or less implying that he was willing. 

Half of his mind begged to refute his new curiosity.  _ Curiosity killed the cat, _ his denial screamed, but it was met by the slow reply of his aching need to know,  _ satisfaction brought it back.  _ A crossroad. Take the risk, jump off the cliff… or be left to wonder.

“Seeking enlightenment…” Sarge repeated. “How about that?”

“It’s kind of funny, man,” Fillmore said. “Not five minutes ago, you were outta your mind about all of this.” He turned back to him, that same revolutionary look crossing his face. “What about it, soldier? What are you thinking?”

This angered him slightly. Fillmore  _ had _ to know; there was no way that he didn’t know exactly what was going through Sarge’s head in this moment. He was certainly experienced, playing with his mind and making him trip over his own thoughts.

“Fillmore--”

“Yeah, Sarge?”

He sighed exasperatedly. “Please don’t make me ask you to--”

Fillmore cut him off, tilting his head down to kiss him. And it was… different. Not  _ bad  _ different, just… plain old different. His lips were chapped, and the unshaven stubble on his chin and upper lip scratched against him.

Sarge wasn’t sure when he closed his eyes, but he re-opened them in time to see Fillmore slowly take another drag off his cigarette. He couldn’t find the strength to say anything, not after something like that. So he looked in the opposite direction, off into the valley. Twilight fell around the earth, the blanket of night quickly descending upon them. The fireworks would be starting soon, he thought.

“Is your curiosity satisfied?” Fillmore asked.

“No--I mean, I don’t know,” Sarge mustered. 

They were awkwardly silent for a moment. Sarge was reeling, not sure of what to think or feel or… or anything, really. He had  _ liked  _ it, and that had screwed up his mind much more than any curiosity could have. He kept glancing in Fillmore’s direction, waiting for him to make the next move. 

When he finally did, Fillmore looked strangely expectant, as if  _ he _ was waiting on the same thing. Sarge gulped back the lump in his throat, uttered a short “Oh, fuck it,” and kissed him again. 

Fillmore tasted bitter sweet, somewhere between bubblegum and cigarette smoke. He pushed himself closer, fingers running up through Fillmore’s messy, uncombed hair. It hadn’t been coordinated to begin with, but now it had devolved into something that was borderline chaotic; a mash of tongues and teeth and unfamiliarity. 

_ Snap-crack-boom _ . Sarge broke away slowly, his need for air overtaking his need to be closer. Above them, the sky rained red, white, and blue.  _ Snap-crack-boom _ . Fireworks were launched in quick succession of one another. Fillmore's hand grazed his neck, threatening to pull him back in for round three.

“Pretty groovy,” Fillmore murmured. 

Sarge didn't reply. He couldn't find the lucidity to form words; even if he tried, it wouldn't matter. There was nothing more he could say. He was lost.


	3. Chapter 3

Once again, Sarge woke with the rising sun. The clock on the bedside table told him it was around seven, and the dread in his stomach reminded him that his…  _stroll_  on the wild side the previous night had not been a dream. He found himself lost in space at the very thought of it. In his mind, he replayed the events of the night prior, remembering it all in vague, foggy detail: Fillmore walking him back to the motel after the fireworks show, bidding him goodnight before returning to his own home.

Except, that's not exactly the way it went. Sarge couldn't help but notice every time their hands brushed as they walked, how Fillmore had lingered with him for too long outside of the motel, how he had whispered oh-so-inconspicuously,  _"I can do more than just make out with you."_

Sarge groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. He wasn't a queer. It had been a one-time thing, a fluke. Nobody was there except for him and Fillmore. Nobody knew they had been together. He'd just forget it ever happened, then it would be back to looking for Mrs. Right. He tried to force it out of his mind immediately, trying to regain some sense of normalcy. He followed through with his routine, but his mind would always wander back to the butte, Fillmore's mouth hot on his own-

He threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and snapped the door shut behind him. Sarge wanted to get out as quickly as possible, to leave this town behind and never come back. He turned in his room key and loaded his belongings back into the jeep, and had almost turned the key in the ignition before he remembered: he hadn't eaten since lunch the day before. With a groan, he measured his chances of running into Fillmore at Flo's. He wanted to avoid him, but the idea of going back to base to eat military food made him feel physically sick.

So, of course he went to Flo's. She waved as he entered, and he waved back. The restaurant was blissfully free of Fillmore, or any Fillmore-type people, so Sarge sat down at the empty booth next to the door. Flo came over and filled his coffee, and they chatted idly for a moment, before she had to return to other responsibilities.

Much to his dismay, the bell above the door jingled, and a very slumped, very tired-looking Fillmore walked in. Sarge found he was unable to object when he slid in the booth across from him.

"Morning, Sarge," Fillmore greeted. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days; his eyes were bloodshot with heavy bags underneath, and his voice was slow from exhaustion.

"Good morning, Fillmore."

The air between them was stiff and cordial, and it was a few moments before either of them spoke again.

"Can we talk about what happened?" Fillmore asked quickly, lowly, casting a tired glance at him.

Sarge's heart sank into his stomach. "Not here."  _Not ever._

"Step outside with me, then. How 'bout a smoke?"

Fillmore motioned towards the door, and Sarge nodded quickly, heart sinking as he did. He stood, tossed a ten dollar bill on the table, and left. They met just around the side of the building, where their conversation might go unheard by any passerby. Fillmore offered him a smoke. This time, he accepted it.

"Last night didn't mean anything," Sarge muttered.

"Maybe not," Fillmore agreed. "But there was still a whole lotta feeling in it, y'know?" He lit his cigarette, and tossed the lighter to Sarge.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he returned, lighting his own.

"Bullshit. You were into it."

"Okay, fine. I was into it." Sarge took a quick drag and blew it out of the side of his mouth. "I'd rather forget about it than try anything else."

"Why?" Fillmore pressed.

"Try and see it from my perspective, wouljda?" Sarge said, suddenly annoyed, "You come to some town in the middle of nowhere, and end up making out with someone who's practically a stranger-and, not to mention that you hadn't even  _considered_  the possibility of being a queer-"

"Alright, I get it," Fillmore interrupted. "You're afraid."

"I wouldn't say that."

Fillmore laughed, but it sounded strained. "Well, you sure  _sound_  afraid." He took a drag, and smoke spilled out of his mouth as he spoke, "This must be your worst nightmare or something, man… Imagine that, thinking you're a square your whole life, only to wake up one morning and-"

"You know what I'm going to do?" Sarge snapped, "I'm going to go back to base and forget you ever existed, because nothing good can come out of this-"

"You don't know that,." Fillmore countered. "Maybe you'll be happier if you know  _exactly_ what you like, rather than it being just a shot in the dark all the time."

"I'm not going to pursue it, Fillmore."

Sarge dropped his cigarette and ground it into the concrete with his boot. Fillmore was silent as he took another drag off of his own. Neither of them moved.

"You got a pencil, man?" Fillmore entreated.

"What for?"

"I'm gonna give you my number," Fillmore said shortly. "In case you want help with that."

Sarge glared at him out of anger and disbelief. After that conversation, he had the  _nerve_ to… Oh, goddammit. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen and an old receipt. Fillmore took them, and quickly scribbled a few digits before handing it back to him.

"Call me," he said, before turning on his heel and promptly walking away.

Sarge stared at him as he retreated, hands in his pockets and messy brown hair flying about in the wind. He rounded the corner, and he was gone from the world. Sarge turned his attention down to the receipt, wondering vaguely if it was serious or not. He shoved it back into his pocket, opting to forget about it like he'd said he would.

Sarge returned to his jeep and got in the driver's side, then turning the key in the ignition. No matter how he might try, he simply couldn't put it from his mind. He wasn't  _afraid_ of it, per say… But, if not afraid, what was he? Conflicted? Curious? And, if it wasn't meaningless…. That was nonsense, of course it was meaningless. What meaning could it ever have?

He pulls out of the lot and out onto the main road, mind a whirlwind of  _yes, no, maybe so._  He felt as though he'd been inducted into some kind of horrible game, and now it was too late to turn back. There was most certainly some grand domino effect that he had set into play by having that conversation. Did he want to find out what it meant? Absolutely not. All he wanted was to go back to his normal military life with his normal military job, and-

As he passed, Sarge spotted Fillmore emerging from the beaded curtain of his geodome. His hair fell haphazardly over his face, and he wore large, round, red-tinted sunglasses. Sarge met his gaze briefly, raising one hand in polite farewell. Fillmore did nothing but watch, finally turning away and getting back to work as Sarge crossed the town's border.

After that, Sarge attempted to settle back into his everyday life. It was difficult, to say the least; he found himself unable to put his mind to his work. He'd lose focus, let his mind wander back to the little town and the fireworks exploding out of the desert like atom bombs in his mind. And Fillmore… As much as he hated it, he damn hippie seemed to follow him everywhere, muddling his mind and turning his train of thought into something like jelly.  _"You're curious,"_ Fillmore had said, words flowing like easy, slow water.  _"...You want to know what it's like."_

Suddenly and without reason, he snapped out of his haze. He held his pen tightly; black ink pooled on the paper where he'd been pressing it down. He quickly removed it and crumpled the page, tossing it towards the wastebasket and missing by a few inches. It had been four days since he left town. Four miserable days of procrastinating work to daydream about his return.

Sarge found a fresh sheet of paper and restarted. Name, age, height, weight. Name, age, height, weight. Name, age, height, weight. He rubbed his eyes, sighing in exasperation. What would Fillmore be doing right now? Probably trying to sell that organic bullshit, listening to that psychedelic-Hendrix-crap-  _Oh, goddammit,_  Sarge thinks, sighing frustratedly,  _What's the use?_  He could hardly think straight, much less get some work done-

His eyes find the scrap of paper pinned on his corkboard.  _Fillmore's Taste-In…_

Sarge practically flies from his seat and snatches it off of the board, nearly tearing it in two. He was going to call Fillmore, and ask for advice (explicitly _not_  a hookup). He quickly sits back down in his chair and wheels himself over to the desk, holding his breath as he picked up the receiver and pressed it between his shoulder and ear as he dialed.

Nervous excitement grew in Sarge's stomach as his fingers moved, turning the rotary as quickly as he was able.  _5...0… 5…_ What would he even say?  _I can't stop thinking about that night, about you-_

"Fillmore's Taste-In, what's cookin?"

Sarge held his breath, going dizzy for a moment. "Fillmore!" He waffled, struggling to think of something he could say. "I-uh… How are you?"

"I'm-er-just fine." Fillmore replied cordially, audibly confused. "Uh-Who is this?"

_Goddammit, how could he have forgotten-_ "It's Sarge. I-erm-wanted to talk… about what we discussed the other day."

"I don't think we should talk about it over the phone, man," Fillmore conceded, his voice lowering dramatically to a low whisper. "You never know, dude, maybe they're monitoring the phone lines-"

"Alright, fine," Sarge interrupted. "Can you come and get me, then? We're free, for the evening-"

"Nine," Fillmore said. "Does that work?"

"Ni-ine." Sarge echoed, faltering. He cleared his throat, and returned: "Nine sounds good."

"Where can I find you?"

For a moment, Sarge had almost forgotten he was in the army; civilians were not allowed on the premises of the base. Thinking fast, he said, "Just, uh… Meet me by the clearance gate. If anyone asks, just tell them you got lost."

"What are you going to do?" Fillmore asked, "You're getting into an unauthorized vehicle, man-"

"I'm an officer. They'll keep quiet if I tell them to."

Fillmore hummed in response. "Authoritative. I like it."

For a moment, things seemed normal again. Fillmore was teasing him, just like he had before any of this had ever happened-Sarge gasped quietly as he realized that they'd been sitting in silence, still on the phone, for significantly longer than necessary. "Well I better get back to work-"

"Yeah-uh-me too."

"Goodbye, Fillmore."

"Uh-Later, dude."

Neither of them hung up. Sarge was holding his breath, listening for when Fillmore would inevitably his end back into the cradle… though, it seemed that moment would never come, so Sarge supposed he would have to hang up first-Wait, no, he can't do that, then Fillmore would think-

The line went dead. Sarge breathed a sigh of relief as he set the receiver down with a satisfying  _clink_. He scrubbed a hand over his face and found himself grinning for some unknown reason. He turned back to his work, now feeling infinitely better. Everything would be resolved that evening, and everything would finally be able to go back to normal…

The hours seemed to pass like days. Time certainly wasn't agreeing with him this evening. He glanced at the clock every few minutes, hoping to find something other than eight-fifteen or eight-sixteen or eight-seventeen. He should go fix his appearance, shouldn't he? Surely, he looked a mess…

Though, much to his dismay, he  _didn't_  look like a mess. He looked fine. Now it was eight twenty-three.

At eight twenty-nine, after slumping in his desk chair once again, he considered: was it worth it? He was most certainly going to get caught leaving; it was Saturday night, everyone had already left for the evening. No one would be able to vouch for where he was, which very well deemed him missing _…_

Eight forty. He'd been pacing his office. Back and forth, back and forth. To the door, back to the desk, and once more. Eight forty-one. He sat down at his desk and pretended to work. There were things that needed to get done, after all. Bootcamps to plan and inventories to take and-

Eight fifty-seven. Dear God, he was going to be late.

He power walked out of his office and out the main door. The camp was mostly void of life-everyone was likely out drinking at the local towns.

As Sarge was getting cleared to leave, Fillmore's psychedelic bus came to a stop fifty feet from the gate. The unfortunate corporal who was manning the gate shot him a confused look, before opening the gate. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards the bus. "You goin' with that guy?"

"Yes," Sarge replied. "Keep your mouth shut about it, and I'll put in a good word for you."

"No problem, sir," the corporal replied, halfheartedly saluting. "Have a nice night."

Sarge uttered a quick "as you were," before ushering himself out of the gate and approaching the bus. Fillmore opened the passenger side door for him, and Sarge got in.

"You're late," Fillmore said, as Sarge shut the door.

"Sorry," Sarge replied. "Got a little caught up."

Fillmore drove off. They sat in silence until the bus was parked neatly between two narrow mesas, away from the prying eyes of the military base. The moon had risen not too long ago, blanketing the desert in cold gray light. Stars glimmered above like dust, and somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled. Their silence was loud and ringing, full of questions and answers that hadn't yet manifested. Sarge stared forward, unable to look at him for fear of what might happen.

"Why did you do it?" he asked. "Why did you think it was a good idea to… you know."

"I don't know," Fillmore groaned, his reply much more enthusiastic than Sarge would have expected. "I thought you were attractive, and… I dunno, I wanted to see what would make you tick." Fillmore sighed in defeat, and laughed somewhat weakly. "It was stupid. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Sarge replied, almost reflexively.

Another prolonged moment of silence. Sarge turned it over in his head. Fillmore was just messing around…

"I, uh…That doesn't mean I didn't mean it," Fillmore reprised quickly. "I-I mean, I didn't at the time, but now…" He huffed frustratedly. He looked at Sarge tiredly, and asked with some strange anticipation, "Why did you call me? That…That can't be the reason why you called me out here."

Sarge was silent for a long while, eyes traveling back and forth along the desert landscape in front of them. "I can't stop thinking about it… That night," he said after a long while. "I can't think, I can't focus, I…I can't do anything anymore. It's bothering me."

It was a long while before Fillmore replied. "I… I can't either."

A long, horribly painful moment passed before either of them said anything. They were both lost in the moment, mulling it all over in a manner that could only be described as reproachful. This was not how it was supposed to turn out.

"Sarge," Fillmore said softly, pleadingly. "Look at me, please."

When he looked, Fillmore's eyes were wide and dark and perfervid, his eyebrows knit together in some wild emotion that Sarge wished he would know. He was closer now, mere inches away and dancing on the edge of Sarge's self-restraint. "Do you know what you're doing to me?" Fillmore whispered, his hand gracing the side of his face with strange, fevered delicacy; brushing against his temple and down his cheekbone, before finally coming to rest on his jaw.

Sarge wanted to push him off and demand an explanation, but found he couldn't even find the will to look away. There was something in his eyes that terrified and intrigued him. He swallowed thickly. "I'd ask the same of you."

Fillmore's hand slid agonizingly down to his chin, cupping it in his palm while his thumb swept across his lower lip. In one strained, effortless movement, he closed the distance between them. It was soft, hesitant, embodying a question that didn't require words. Sarge answered in the only way he can think: losing himself somewhere in the moment as he leant into it batedly.

" _Hey, lovebirds, this is military property! You can't park here!"_

Sarge pushed him away, a strangled gasp escaping his throat. He met Fillmore's eyes briefly, fearfully, anxiety rising in his throat.  _No, no, no, this can't be happening,_ he managed to think.  _This can't be…_  In unison, they turned their gaze on the source of the noise.

There, outside the driver's side door, stood a private. He peered in through the window, face illuminated by the bright light of the moon. Sarge recognized him; he was one of the trainees in his bootcamp, always reluctant to train like everyone else. The private's eyes flicked over the two of them, his cocky grin quickly dissipating into a look of shock. He pointed, mouth agape and stuttering nonsense. Not a moment later, he turned tail and ran into the night, back in the direction of the base.

Fillmore turned back to him, a look of insurmountable shame on his face. Sarge opened his mouth to say something ( _anything)_ , but found he was completely unable to.  _It's over_ , he thought as Fillmore pulled away from him and turned the key in the ignition.


	4. Chapter 4

Sarge read over the emboldened words over and over again, his mind tearing itself apart with each repetition. “ _This is to certify that Willie A. Jones, Sergeant Major, was discharged from the United States Army on the 9th day of July 1967.”_ He re-folded the sheet of paper and tucked it into his breast pocket, sighing with contempt. Dishonorable discharge…

“You alright?”

Fillmore appeared in the beaded doorway, gazing at him with those stupid, big brown eyes. Sarge had been living with him for the past three (or, maybe four or five--he didn’t really know anymore) days following his discharge. This was all Fillmore's fault, none of it would have happened if not for--

“Fine,” Sarge replied, though he didn't mean it.

“You should come down to Flo’s,” Fillmore said, after a moment. “It’s, uh, a thing we do, where we all go and sit around for a while, y’know, unwind… Everyone’s gonna be there.”

Sarge didn’t even need to consider it. “I’d rather not.”

“Oh, come on,” Fillmore groaned. “You’ve been holed up in here for days, just sulking. You gotta get out for at least a little bit, man.”

Begrudgingly, Sarge accepted. Maybe it was only to get Fillmore to shut up, maybe it was to get out for some fresh air. He didn’t really know, but still found himself walking to the diner in the lazy afternoon sun. Fillmore held the door open for him, and he stepped inside.

Flo’s was busy, as usual, though it was a different kind of busy. The tables around the diner had been pushed together in the center of the room, and each seat held a different resident of the town. Everyone seemed to be away in their own conversation, yet somehow all taking part in the mass discussion.

Sarge pulled up a seat next to Sheriff, who greeted him enthusiastically. “Hey, there he is!” he said, a wide grin splitting across his face. “I was beginning to think you went missing.”

“No, just, uh…occupied,” Sarge replied, smiling weakly in return. Vaguely, he noticed that Fillmore had taken the seat next to his own, but he decided not to pay any attention to it. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Sheriff replied. “That whole discharge thing must be gettin’ you down.” For a moment, he looked confused, “Remind me how you managed that?”

“Oh, uh…” he desperately searched his thoughts for an excuse. “They, uh, ended my contract early.”

Sheriff hummed and nodded, but looked unconvinced. Thankfully, he decided not to pursue it further.

“Well, since you’re suddenly unemployed,” Stanley said, easing himself into their conversation. “Why don’t you open a shop here in town?”

“I...don’t have the funds to do that,” Sarge replied slowly. “I’m just staying here until I can get back on my feet, then--”

“Stanley, didn’t you give Fillmore a loan to open up his, uh...shop?” Sheriff asked.

“Sure did!”

“Well, there!” Sheriff smacked his hand on the table conclusively. “Get a loan from Stanley, and take up that empty lot next to Doc’s clinic!”

It certainly _sounded_ all fine-and-dandy. Opening a shop in Radiator Springs…Not the worst outcome of this situation. “I--erm--need to consider it a bit.”

“Oh, of course! Of course!” Stanley batted a hand at him. “But please, don’t be too quick about it!” He chortled in the way that only old men can.

He and Fillmore left a while later, one after the other. As they walked back to the Taste-In, Sarge glared at his back. His discharge was one point on a long list of things going wrong, and it was shortly preceded by _sexually confused_ and _unemployed._   All of his problems, it seemed, were caused by Fillmore--whether directly or otherwise.

They had refused to talk about what had happened, though it seemed to be the only thing Sarge thought about anymore. Their evening at the butte, getting caught together… Sarge had been discharged the minute he stepped foot onto base, and promptly kicked out. Fillmore must have known what would happen, as he hadn’t gone far in the collective two hours that had taken. He took him back to town, invited him to stay in his incense-smelling home, and asked what he was thinking. Sarge didn’t respond to him, then, and he wouldn’t respond to him now.

The beaded curtain was being pulled open for him. Once inside, Fillmore deposited himself in that dark-orange armchair in the corner of his shop, sighing heavily. “I’m so fuckin’ tired, man.”

“Go to sleep, then,” Sarge replied coldly.

Fillmore gazed up at him, indifferent. Then: “Don’t you think it’s a good thing that you got discharged?” he asked. “I mean, you said yourself that the whole war is pointless-"

“Just because I said the war is pointless doesn’t mean that I didn’t _enjoy_ being in the army,” Sarge said, suddenly angry. “I had everything I would ever need in the army…and look where discharge got me--unemployed and living with _you_.”

Fillmore seemed mostly unfazed by his outburst. “Well, your options are pretty slim, man,” he said. “I mean, you either stay here or hitchhike to the nearest train station…”

“I could go and stay with my parents.”

“Yeah? And where are they?”

_Shit._ “Ohio.” 

“Right. My point exactly,” Fillmore said. “I guess you’re stuck here, man.”

Sarge didn’t respond, instead staring pettily over Fillmore’s left shoulder.

He spent the next few days figuratively banging his head against the wall. On one hand, he’d _like_ to stay in Radiator Springs. He liked the town and its residents, and he wouldn't mind starting a new career here. On the other hand, he felt it would be easier to find work elsewhere. California wasn’t a bad bet, come to think of it…

He didn’t come to a true decision until the next time he happened to run into Stanley, which was at Flo’s a few days after the idea had first been introduced to him. Stanley had asked what he thought about opening a shop, and in that moment he came to a conclusion:

“You know, Stanley,” Sarge said, “I think I’ll take you up on that.”

Stanley grinned a buck-toothed grin. “You’re making the right choice here, son. Now, what kind of shop are you--?”

“Military surplus,” Sarge answered quickly, thinking on his feet. “Makes good profit, I think.”

Stanley nodded. “Alright, alright.”

They chatted for an hour or so, talking over logistics of the loan and the price of the land and whatnot. Stanley was selling it to him for practically nothing, as long as his business promised to help bring customers to the town…Which, of course, wouldn’t be a problem, considering he would be opening Carburetor County’s first military surplus store.

Stanley--the man was _truly_ the most driven person he’d ever met--helped him through ordering the materials he would use to build (which, he’d opted to erect a standard bunker-- mostly because it was cheap) and the surplus itself. Within a week, the bunker and two-dozen crates of military-grade equipment had arrived to the empty lot which Sarge now called his own.

Of course, he wasted no time putting it all together. Before that week had ended, he’d poured concrete for the floor and set up the bunker itself, as well as taking care of electric and plumbing with a little help from folks around town.

“So…are you going to move out, then?” Fillmore asked, early one morning. They were still in bed, as far away from each other as possible, and far too comfortable to move.

“Most likely.” Sarge replied. The work of putting his shop together had kept his mind off of everything, and now that Fillmore had brought it up…No, he didn’t want to think about it.

“That’s cool,” Fillmore replied, sounding mostly uncaring. “Do you want some help setting up?”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“No, it’s my, uh…day off.”

Sarge scoffed. It wasn’t his day off. That was always on Sunday, not on Thursday. Nevertheless, he relented, “Sure. Why not.”

So, they got out of bed and dressed silently. They didn’t look at each other, nor did they talk to each other until they got next door, where they made small talk in order to fill the crushing silence.

Sarge pushed crates around, shelving and re-shelving things in an attempt to put everything exactly where he wanted it. Fillmore found himself sitting on the floor, assembling the large neon sign that Sarge had purchased.

“It’s so complicated,” he complained. “I mean, I know it’s just lights, but…”

Sarge put down a box of swiss army knives and approached him. “Give it to me,” he said, taking the bright green lightbulb out of Fillmore’s hand. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“No, I was doing it right. It’s just hard.”

“No it’s not,” Sarge insisted. “Look--”

He attempted to screw in a lightbulb. It got stuck halfway in. “What the--”

“See, I told you, it’s--”

“It’s not hard, Fillmore.”

He unscrewed the lightbulb, and attempted to screw it in once more. Same problem.

“Something must be wrong with it.” He proclaimed, unscrewing it again. He looked it over, only to find that there was nothing wrong with it.

“Here, give it back for a seco--”

“No, I got it--”

The lightbulb promptly shattered in his hand.

“Goddammit.” Sarge grunted, watching tiny red pin pricks form on his palm. “There’s a first aid kit in that back room, would you--”

Fillmore had already turned to leave, springing to his feet with surprising speed and power-walking to the back of the store. In his absence, Sarge inspected his hand, which was luckily free of any glass shards.

Fillmore returned quickly, the red first aid kit gripped tightly in one hand. “I told you it was hard.” he huffed, unlatching it and pulling out a roll of bandages.

“Shut up,” Sarge replied. “This coulda happened to you--just give it here, I can do it--”

“No, no, I’ll get it,” Fillmore said. “It’ll be quicker for me to do it, and I don’t want you to make it worse somehow.”

Sarge relented, knowing that he wouldn't give in easily. At least, he wouldn’t for something like this. Fillmore took his hand gently, examining it with concentrated eyes, before beginning to wind the bandage around his palm.

“I'm sorry this happened to you,” Fillmore said slowly, carefully.

“What, the cut? It’s fine, it doesn’t even hurt--”

“No, not that,” Fillmore interrupted. “You, uh…you lost your military career because of me. I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well…I’ve made my peace with it, for the most part.” Sarge watched him work for a minute, delicate and deliberate. “It’s just…I hate that it had to happen _now,_ of all times. I had my whole life planned out, you know that?” He sighed. “I could have been a general someday.”

“I guess it’s just not what life had planned for you, man,” Fillmore said. “Look on the bright side--at least you know more about yourself than most people.”

“Being ignorant was much better than this.”

Fillmore was quiet for a moment, pulling the bandage tighter around his palm. “I was like that too, for a little while. Nobody likes knowing the truth, y’know? Especially when it’s like this.” He went silent for a few seconds, as though he were remembering something he didn’t want to. “I guess…I guess you just start to realize that you can’t change who you are…and then you carry on.”

“That’s oddly sincere of you.”

“It’s the truth!” he replied. “You’re going to be much happier once you learn to go with the flow instead of resisting it, man.”

Sarge wondered, vaguely, how long Fillmore had been living like this…accepting himself and finding his way around stigma and legality. The question burned at the back of Sarge’s throat, wrestling itself free in an uncomfortable stammer: “When did you…first start…noticing, erm--”

“Dudes?” Fillmore finished.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I’ve just always…I dunno. You remember in high school, when you’d see the star quarterback in the locker room after Phys Ed?”

“Not really.”

Fillmore huffed. “Oh, of course you wouldn’t. You probably _were_ the star quarterback.”

“Linebacker, actually.”

“No shit?”

“Sure,” Sarge returned. “I got a full ride to a university back east, but I ended up enlisting instead.”

“That’s wild, man.”

They fell quiet for a few moments, Fillmore in either awe or deep concentration.

“Yeah, it, uh…It must have been high school,” Fillmore reprised. “I’m one of the lucky ones, figuring it out that early on.”

Fillmore finished bandaging his hand, and sat there for a moment. He was still holding Sarge’s hand in his own, looking down at it as though there was still something he could do.

“Erm…Thank you,” Sarge said, retracting his hand. He examined it, and then joked: “Almost as good as the medic in my platoon.”

Fillmore stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, not better?”

“Well, it took you all of five minutes to do it,” Sarge said. “They could bandage a wound in something like thirty seconds.”

So, they went back to work. They decided to steer clear of the neon lights for a while, instead opting to hang banners along the walls of the store. Sarge didn’t really know what they were for (they just came in one of the many boxes of military surplus), but thought that it wouldn’t hurt to have a little decoration.

“Man, these are all pro-army,” Fillmore said, pinning one end of a nine-foot banner to the wall. “We should get you some protest stuff, man. Like, ‘ _LBJ loves Ho Chi Minh,_ ’ or something like that.”

Sarge busied himself with the other end of the banner. “I think I’ll keep my business separate from politics, unlike you.”

“Woah, man. Don’t be so rude.”

Sarge turned his head slightly to look at him, only to find that he was smiling. “It’s not rude, it’s honest.”

Fillmore met his eye, still smiling. “It's rude,” he insisted.

After a few hours of attempting to hang things up, they stood in the center of the shop to admire their work. It looked pretty good--empty shelves stood in rows along the width of the store, and the banners lining the walls cried military slogans at whoever might pay attention to them. All in all… It seemed mostly perfect. Sarge opened his mouth to comment on it, but was interrupted by a crack of thunder.

“We should probably go home,” Fillmore said, nodding to himself. “I guess it’s gonna storm soon.”

And, storm it did; it seemed the very minute they stepped outside, they were drenched by the sudden downpour. Sarge started walking back in the direction of the geodome, but turned back around once he realized Fillmore wasn’t following him. He stood just outside the entrance to the bunker, head turned towards the sky with a large, stupid grin on his face.

Sarge grabbed his arm and pulled, hoping he would follow him to the warm, dry safety of the geodome, but Fillmore didn’t budge. He just looked at him, soaking wet hair hanging in his face and eyes filled with some unplaceable emotion.

In one fluid movement, Fillmore grabbed his hand and swung him around, dancing clumsily through the rain. Sarge tried to object, but the only sound that would come out of his mouth was giddy, drunken laughter. His heart was lighter than air itself, and it felt as though he might levitate at any moment

It all stopped suddenly as they clashed into one another. Sarge stumbled drunkenly as he tried to steady them, using his body weight to hold Fillmore up. Through his soaking-wet shirt, he felt the gentle curve of his biceps, the edge of his shoulder… He looked at Fillmore, and found him staring right back, brown eyes wide with anticipation, wet hair plastered to his forehead.

_You could kiss him right now_ , his mind screamed. _Do it, nobody’s watching--_

Sarge pushed away from him and turned on his heel in the direction of the geodome, trying so, so hard not to concentrate on how Fillmore’s eyes were following him, watching him go. It was warm and dry inside, and Sarge was only alone for a moment before the beaded curtains parted behind him.

Fillmore wrung out his shirt as he spoke. “Towels are in the bin near the bathroom. You know the one--”

“I know the one,” Sarge interrupted, already passing through the beaded curtain leading to the living space. He found the bin outside the bathroom door, and retrieved two large, burgundy towels. When he returned, Fillmore had moved to sit on the bed. Sarge tossed one at him unceremoniously, and watched with strange amusement as he pressed it against his face.

Sarge dried his hair first, then his face and neck. He didn’t enjoy being soaking wet, but he supposed it had been worth it… No, no it hadn’t been worth it. What was he thinking?

“Are you…” Fillmore spoke quietly, timidly. “Do you want to pick up where we left off?”

Sarge turned to look at him. "What?"

"The other night, you know… before, uh… everything happened."

Sarge stared at him, tiredly searching for the right words to say. Some part of him was hoping to leave all that behind, maybe forget about it entirely, but… There was something about how Fillmore stared back at him almost innocently, hopefully. It somewhat him of the first time they'd met; the young peacenik from San Francisco, out dancing around in the desert with flowers in his hair…

Fillmore continued apprehensively, “I dunno, man, I just get the vibe that…The other night we kinda left off on the wrong foot, so I thought we could…?”

All of the sudden, Fillmore somehow seemed both too close and too far. He was beautiful, bathed in the orange-pink lighting, staring up at him as though he held the answer to everything. Sarge almost thought, believed, that he would be unable to touch him because of how ethereal he seemed. He took a few steps closer, driven by exhaustion and adrenaline.

“Yes,” he croaked, sounding like a different, more nervous man. “Yes, that’s--”

He couldn't bring himself to finish. For a minute, Fillmore mirrored him; his were wide with astonishment as he reached with trembling fingers to touch him. When he did, his fingerprints were electric, charged with anticipation. He took Sarge's wrist, and tugged it gently. So he sat, facing Fillmore on the bed, watching him, waiting. Sarge’s mind raced with half-reminders that this was real, this was actually happening, that they were alone and _safe_ to finally--

His thoughts were cut short by the sensation of being swallowed whole by the universe as Fillmore’s lips brushed his own. In a moment, Sarge decided to let himself into a free fall, losing control over his self-restraint to let it happen. He anchored himself, hands traveling to rest on Fillmore’s neck, pulling him close with no intention of letting go.

Their strange uncertainty quickly evolved into something wild, something eager. They were spiraling downward--or, maybe upward--lost in each other like this was the last sensation they would ever experience.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Fillmore murmured, so close that his breath was warm on Sarge’s cheek.

“I’m not sure I’m thinking anything.”

He sighed as Fillmore kissed him again. It was softly off-center, more towards one corner of his mouth than the other. As brief as it was, he couldn’t help but think that it was the best one yet. 

There was something about the moment that seemed almost dreamlike… It was too good, too sweet to be real. Through his haze, Sarge suddenly remembered their conversation. _“I guess I feel like we have a connection,”_ Fillmore had said, grinning like he knew something he shouldn't have. _Maybe he’s right,_ Sarge thought. _Maybe there is…_

His thoughts were cut short as Fillmore kissed him again, engulfing him in that newfound feeling of elation. He moved to his jaw, then his neck, then his collarbone…. Sarge responded in the only way he found he could: throwing all caution to the wind and losing himself somewhere in the ecstasy.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn’t insignificant, per se…. But it wasn’t significant, either. Sex was sex, plain as that. Maybe Sarge thought it was a big deal because it was his first time being with another man, or because he’d discovered things about himself that he didn’t necessarily need to know. In reality, however… it was just sex.

“Cigarette?” 

Fillmore’s voice rose above the indecency, and his fingers (curled around a Marlboro carton) hovered in front of Sarge’s face. He uttered a short “Thanks,” as he took one. The first drag was a relief--some semblance of normalcy in his upside-down life. 

“You’re awfully quiet,” Fillmore said, rolling onto his stomach to face him. He looked so strangely sweet, with his hair falling haphazardly into his eyes and a cigarette dangling from his teeth. 

“I’m recovering,” Sarge replied, blowing smoke indifferently. 

Fillmore laughed, puffs of smoke escaping his lips. “That good, huh?”

Sarge chose not to answer, instead taking another drag and holding it in deep. He didn’t exactly  _ know _ what to feel. Content? Fear?  _ Disgust?  _ The smoke he exhaled was agitated, and hovered uncomfortably in the air above him. Fillmore continued to watch, like he always did. Those brown eyes were locked on him, slow and somewhat calculating. 

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Sarge asked, not meeting his gaze.

“You,” Fillmore replied. “Just…you. You’re like a dream.”

Now, Sarge couldn’t help but meet him. “What?”

“I dunno, man.” Fillmore ducked his head, and it was clear that he was blushing. “I just…There’s something about you.”

Sarge felt his heart drop to his stomach. He tore his gaze away and looked to the opposite wall, placing the cigarette between his teeth and taking another slow drag.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, disregarding Fillmore’s statement. He stood, and searched desperately for something to cover himself with. 

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” 

“It’s not that,” Sarge said, pulling on a pair of boxer shorts he’d found on the floor. “I, um…I just need to clear my head a little.”

Sarge felt Fillmore’s eyes follow him as he crossed the room and opened the bathroom door. He met his stare briefly as the door closed behind him, but couldn’t find it in himself to hold it for very long.

The panic didn’t set in until he spotted himself in the mirror. His hair, always gelled impeccably into place, fell in miniature curls across the top of his forehead. His face was red, his legs were weak, and his neck and collarbone were dotted with unmistakable red marks. On top of all of that, the boxer shorts he’d grabbed weren’t even his own--he’d never bought orange, only black or gray. 

“Oh, Willie, what have you gotten yourself into…” he muttered to himself, undressing again and turning the shower as cold as it would go. The water was like ice on his burning-hot skin, but it was a welcome relief from the indecency that lingered around him.

Sarge swiped a hand through his hair, slicking it back into place with the help of the water.  _ It doesn’t have to mean anything,  _ he thought, grabbing the bottle of shampoo.  _ It never meant anything in the first place…right? There was nothing…  _

He frowned, suddenly remembering the events of the evening. There was something in the way Fillmore looked at him, something in the way he’d spoken to him, something in the way all his little mannerisms and gestures made Sarge’s heart jump in his chest… It certainly wasn’t  _ nothing _ . 

Suddenly feeling as though he were about to vomit, he leaned his back against the cold tile of the shower. Sarge didn’t want to  _ like _ Fillmore. Truthfully, he wanted to hate him. It only made sense. He’d spent twenty-six months in Vietnam, goddammit, and what was Fillmore? An anti-war college dropout, a hippie, yippie, digger, longhair, a freak, or whatever they were calling themselves these days-- he was everything that Sarge knew he should despise.

_ And yet…  _ Sarge groaned, scrubbing one hand over his face. He tried to force the thoughts to the back of his mind, but they rose and crashed like waves behind his eyes. Fillmore might have been a good-for-nothing peacenik, but goddammit…he was handsome, and hardworking, and  _ certainly  _ not terrible in bed--

Sarge dug his fingernails into his palm, trying to derail his train of thought in whatever way he could. It didn’t seem to work, as his intrusive thoughts continued to scrape at the inside of his brain. He liked how Fillmore laughed, how he smiled, how he walked, talked,  _ existed _ so effortlessly, like he’d been sent from whatever deity above to bring that chaotic peace wherever he went… 

It all stopped suddenly, the quiet in his mind ringing like a gunshot. He put his head in his hands, and laughed wearily. It was all hopeless, wasn’t it? There was no way out. Sarge shut off the water, and clambered out of the shower. A passing glance in the mirror showed him cold skin, blonde hair slicked to his forehead, and the remaining marks scattered across his neck.

He dressed as slowly as he possibly could, though it still only took all of two minutes. He stared at himself in the mirror for another three, checking himself over. He couldn’t hide in there forever… but goddamn, he wished he could. He’d leave if he had somewhere else to stay. Sarge hung his towel, collected the boxers, and opened the bathroom door. 

The turntable, which had previously been playing  _ The Electric Prunes _ , was now playing something he didn’t recognize. Fillmore had re-dressed himself and lounged on the bed, now staring into space while smoking another cigarette. He looked so pensive, so lost in thought that it would be a crime to interrupt him.

“It’s  _ Cream _ ,” Fillmore said, not looking at him. “Eric Clapton.”

“Never heard of him,” Sarge replied coolly. “Is it new?”

“Not really.”

Sarge kept a careful eye on him as he approached the bed, watching how he breathed. His legs were crossed, his socks didn’t match, and his too-long Beatle haircut was tousled into something that looked more like Mick Jagger. “Don’t be so distant, man,” Fillmore said, grinning, cigarette poised a few inches from his mouth, “I won’t bite unless you want me to.” 

Sweet Christ, he was good-looking. Nearly made his heart stop.

Sarge realized he was staring, blinking rapidly and trying to snap himself out of it. “Sorry, I uh…” He trailed off. What was he apologizing for again? He sat down on the bed awkwardly, close enough to Fillmore that their legs might touch if he shifted ever so slightly.

“What’re you thinking about?” Fillmore asked, sitting up and turning his contemplative eyes on him.

“Nothing, really.” 

“You’re a really bad liar, you know that?” Fillmore grinned slightly. “I can see the little gears turning in that mind of yours. You’re conflicted.”

“How can you tell?”

Fillmore shrugged. “I’m just good with people, I guess.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sarge scoffed. “What did you study in college?”

“Poly Sci. Don’t change the subject.” Fillmore leaned in, ever so slightly. “You can trust me, man. I promise. I’m not gonna go running my mouth about how un-manly you are because you have feelings.”

Sarge didn’t answer, shaking his head. Fillmore watched him assessingly, nodding his head along to the beat of the song.  _ On a boat in the middle of a raging sea…  _

“It’s okay if you’re afraid.” Fillmore placed one hand on his shoulder. “This is all completely normal--”

“Is it?” Sarge snapped. “Fillmore, nothing about this-- _ any _ of this--is normal! This wasn’t supposed to happen! Not to me, not to you, not to _ anyone--” _

“Sarge,” Fillmore interrupted him calmly. “You’re overthinking.”

“No, I’m not!” 

“Yes, you are.” Fillmore’s fingers graced over his arm as they traveled downward, finally coming to rest atop Sarge’s hand. “You gotta reflect, man. What are you thinking?”

Sarge didn’t reply, looking down at Fillmore’s hand. His fingers were long, hands soft, with short fingernails. 

“It’s okay, Sarge.” Fillmore’s thumb brushed against the back of his palm, sending a jolt of electricity down his spine.

Sarge didn’t know what drove him to do it, but he relented: “It’s just…” He stopped, sighed, and restarted, "It's wrong, you know that? It's wrong." 

Fillmore was quiet for a long moment before he replied, frozen in place. “It’s… not wrong, man,” he finally said. “It’s human nature, y’know?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Society tells us that it’s an illness,  like we need a doctor to fix it, or something,” Fillmore tensed, some silent outrage clinging to his bones. “But we don’t, man. It…It’s just  _ love _ , you know? Nothing wrong about that.”

“Love,” Sarge repeated.

“And, uh, love-making,” Fillmore said quickly. “You know, like, uh… sexual attraction.” He offered a smile, but it was a weak one. He retracted his hand, which he ran shakily through his hair. “Human nature,” he repeated. The hand fell to his lap, and Sarge found himself missing the touch.

Sarge watched him for a moment--Fillmore’s shoulders were sagged, eyes turned downward in silent contemplation as he took another drag from his cigarette. “You look like you have something to say.”

Fillmore glanced up quickly, smoke escaping his mouth. “What? No, I--” He silenced himself when he met Sarge’s eye. He scrubbed a hand over his face, sighed loudly, and said, “You’re very intimidating, you know that? I feel like I’m being interrogated.”

“Are you gonna tell me or not?”

“Alright! Fine.” He huffed, “I like you. A lot. And I know you don’t feel the same--”

“You’re being irrational.”

“I know!” Fillmore said. “We just met, and you’re still so afraid--”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sarge interrupted. “What made you jump to the conclusion that I…you know--”

“Didn’t… like--” Fillmore’s brow knit together. “Wait, hold on, you mean--”

“Yeah."

They sat silently, staring at each other for what felt like hours. Neither of them moved or breathed, as the air seemed to turn into something like jelly. In the background, the soft  _ woah-woah  _ of Eric Clapton’s guitar continued as it had for the past ten-or-so minutes.  _ I’ve been waiting so long to be where I’m going…   _ Fillmore suddenly started to laugh, ducking his head so his hair fell over his face.  _ In the sunshine of your love! _

“What’s so funny?” Sarge asked, completely puzzled. 

“That was so much effort, man,” Fillmore giggled. He met Sarge’s eye in one fleeting moment, eyes squinted from laughing. “You’re really getting to me, huh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, man,” Fillmore said, standing. “Absolutely nothing.” He stretched, bending backwards with his arms above his head. “Glad we got that out of the way, though.”

Sarge couldn’t help but laugh himself. “Me too.”

He watched Fillmore open his Marlboro carton, frown, and toss it back on the bedside table. “I’m gonna need something stronger than that, man,” he mumbled, opening the nightstand’s drawer. “You ever smoked pot before?”

“I can’t say I have.”

Fillmore closed the drawer with a flourish, and flopped back down on the bed, now holding a small wooden box. He opened it and handed Sarge a small glass pipe--“hold this for a sec”-- before pulling out a baggie of green herb. He broke a portion of it up into his hands, then taking the pipe back and packing it in with his index finger and thumb. 

“It’ll totally chill you out, man. Get you down from all that heavy stuff we talked about.” He flashed a smile as he brought the bowl to his lips. He giggled as he exhaled a few seconds later, smoke spilling from between his teeth. “You want a hit? It’s totally cool if you don’t, by the way. I won’t hold it against you.” He held out the bowl with one steady hand.

Sarge watched him for a moment, eyebrows raised. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

Fillmore shrugged. “Suit yourself, man.” He retracted his hand and took another pull. “Though, wait--could you hold it for a sec? I’m gonna put on another record,” He grinned lopsidedly, hazily, “I’m not really feeling Clapton tonight.”

He held it out again, and this time Sarge took it. He watched as Fillmore gingerly plucked the needle from the grooves of  _ Disraeli Gears _ , then sliding it neatly back into its cardboard sleeve. He flicked through his vinyls for a moment, before contemplatively pulling out the now-familiar bright yellow sleeve of  _ Are You Experienced.  _

Sarge turned his attention to the pipe for a moment, feeling its weight in his hand and considering his chances. One one hand, it was illegal. On the other hand…

“Reconsidering?” Fillmore asked, sitting back down on the bed.

“You could say that.”

“Well, uh…” Fillmore said. “Either do it or don’t, you know, man? Smoke the bowl, or pass it here.”

Sarge looked at it a moment longer, considering it. “Just out of curiosity,” he said, “how do you do it?”

“Well!” Fillmore said. “Lemme demonstrate, it’s uh… kind of hard to do for another person.”

Sarge passed the bowl back to him. Fillmore held it in one hand, and a lighter in the other. “Basically, you just, uh…light it--not the whole thing, just corner it, you know? And then inhale. And move your thumb. Don’t forget to move your thumb.” 

He demonstrated, and Sarge watched with full interest. He had to admit, he was genuinely curious about what it would be like. “You know what?” He said,“I’ll try it.”

“That’s the spirit, man.” Fillmore offered the bowl to him, and Sarge took it. “You get how to do it, or…?”

“I’ll manage.” 

Sarge brought the bowl to his lips, and did as Fillmore had. Light it, inhale, move his thumb… He coughed it out the minute the smoke hit his tongue. It was downright  _ disgusting _ . The taste alone made his eyes water, not to mention the skunk-smell that his body physically rejected. 

When he opened his eyes, Fillmore was watching him and  _ laughing _ . “You’ll manage, huh?”

“Shut up,” Sarge countered, passing the bowl back to him. 

“You’ll get used to the taste,” Fillmore said, taking another hit. Smoke bubbled from his mouth as he offered it back, “Want to try again?”

Sarge took it, more determined to get it right than anything else. He repeated the process, and somehow managed to get the smoke all the way to his lungs. He held it there for a moment, before letting it go in one solid exhale. 

“Woah,” Fillmore said. “Lotta mojo in that, huh?”

Sarge coughed again. “What’s that mean?”

“That was hot.” 

Sarge met his eyes, and couldn’t help but laugh. He didn’t exactly know _ what _ he was laughing at,  only that the situation was hilarious in some convoluted way. He passed the bowl back, still giggling. 

“Hot,” he repeated. 

“Yeah, man,” Fillmore repeated, “Lotta fuckin’ mojo.”

They passed the bowl back and forth for a little while, before they had cornered all that there was to be cornered. Sarge had fallen into a very pleasant downward spiral, that oh-so-wonderful floating feeling consuming him and making the air around him feel more like water. Fillmore had leaned away to place the now-ash-filled bowl on the bedside table, but swayed back into place across from him.

“What do we do now?” Sarge’s voice had slowed, noise sticking to the syllables like honey.

“Hang loose, man.” Fillmore grinned hazily. “Just drift on through these groovy feelings.”

Sarge shrugged, and accepted it. “Fair enough.” He fell backwards into the melodic haze of the crackling vinyl, wondering if he should enjoy the way Fillmore was watching him. 

“What are you thinking?” Fillmore asked for the second time that evening. 

“Nothing,” Sarge replied. He was sure he meant it this time, though it was hard to tell through all this smoke. 

Fillmore seemed to believe him this time, laughing almost drunkenly. “You know what I’m thinking?”

“What.”

“I’m  _ thinking… _ ” Fillmore leaned in, as though he were about to tell a secret. “I’m thinking that you’re a fuckin’ knockout, man.” 

Up close, his eyes seemed to sparkle with golden interest, waves of burgundyred and honeybrownyellow crashing to greet him. Sarge swallowed, pushing through the fog in his mind… but found there was nothing to say, not when Fillmore’s heavy eyebrows and round face and curious expression were all right there, up close for him to memorize. His mouth was curved into a small smile, and there was the ghost of unshaven stubble just above his upper lip.

“I don’t even know what to think of you,” Fillmore murmured through the slow air, reaching one hand up to brush against Sarge’s jaw. He leant into it, breathing slowly as his eyes slipped shut into velvetblack darkness. “So outta sight, so…so…I dunno. Something good. Something groovy.”

Fillmore’s voice had become music; it fell upon his mind in maple-sweet waves, holding him captive in its lovely syllables. It melded and merged with the mellowsmooth guitar that oozed from the record player across the room. A different voice joined in from some far-off universe, speak-singing the lyrics to a song he thought he should know:  _ waterfall, don’t ever change your ways…  _

He finally,  _ finally  _ opened his eyes to find Fillmore still there, smiling dreamily. Sarge watched his mouth move as he sang the next verse, voice resonating with each passing note, “ _ Fall with me for a million days…Oh, my waterfall...”  _

The chord progression spilled over them in great periwinkle-blue waves, feeling like the ocean and tasting like saltwater. Sarge met him somewhere in the middle as they drifted through the melody, doing everything and anything within his power to get ever closer--

Fillmore gasped as he fell backwards off the bed, hitting the floor with a soft  _ thud _ and grunting as Sarge fell on top of him. He started laughing, giggles crescendoing quickly into loud, unrestrained cackling. Sarge couldn’t help but laugh too, matching Fillmore’s volume within seconds.

Sarge kissed him, enjoying immensely how the adrenaline rush accompanied his high. Fillmore giggled into it, cupping his jaw and pulling him closer. He pulled away at what felt like last second, just as the nervous excitement was about to break free from his lungs. 

Fillmore started at him, wonderment clear in his eyes and a stupid grin glued to his face. Fiery drums had replaced the mellow guitar, sounding almost like gunfire against their foggy evening. Sarge felt the hands underneath his shirt, how they curved against his back and traced up his spine… In one near-liquid moment, he watched Fillmore’s mouth move into a near-inaudible form under the knifelike drums, spiraling further down into their lazy moment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is going to be on hiatus for a couple of weeks. regular posting will resume sometime in late august, maybe early september. wherever the wind takes me, i guess.
> 
> so glad you folks are enjoying it so far! your comments and kudos mean a lot :))


	6. Chapter 6

Summer ended the way it always does: quickly, mournfully, in a wave of cool air and burning pink sunsets. August fell quicker than Sarge could ever realize, and soon enough he was finished with September. It's funny how time gets away from you sometimes- you never know where it goes away to, only that it slips through your fingers like warm water.

He supposed there were multiple things to blame for that. A lot happened over the summer: his discharge and move to Radiator Springs, to name a few. And, not to mention,  _Fillmore_  dropped into his life. Fillmore, with his Mick Jagger haircut and cigarettes and psychedelic music. In the past months, they had spent many evenings together; at the end of the day, they all blur together in a haze of pot smoke and illicit acts. The Summer of Love, indeed.

Sarge found himself thinking about it- all of it- one foggy afternoon spent in the armchair in the corner of Fillmore's Taste-In. It was a Saturday, a day he usually spent behind the register of his very own Surplus Hut; today, however, he had closed early in favor of helping Fillmore. Life at the Surplus Hut was nice; he had a steady income, fully stocked shelves, and a place of his own (which, in all honesty, he hardly ever used- most nights, he slept at Fillmore's place). Truth be told, he was happy here. Happier than he ever could have been in the military, happier than if he had moved back to the midwest after his discharge. Here, he was  _living._  He had a job, he had a family, and he had Fillmore. What would he be, without all that?

Sarge snapped back to reality, sharply realizing that he'd been staring off into space for the past few minutes. It was so easy to do that, especially when Fillmore kept the lights low and the music soft. He re-folded his newspaper and stretched, groaning as he did.

"Good morning," Fillmore said, casting a glance at him.

"What?"

"You were asleep."

"No I wasn't." Sarge frowned, and glanced at the watch on his wrist. "Fucks sake-"

Fillmore laughed loudly, throwing his head back. "Man, all the customers thought you were just passed out drunk." He cracked a roll of quarters on his counter and spilled them into the register. "Sheriff even came in and-"

"Alright, that's enough."

Fillmore just grinned and shook his head, and Sarge couldn't help but admire how handsome he was with his hair pulled back into a tiny bun at the back of his head. They'd been together- if you could even call it that- for just around five months.

"If it's any consolation, I took the liberty of locking up your shop." Fillmore said, ducking under the counter to look for something. "Didn't want some kids comin' along and stealing your shit."

"Thank you." Sarge went quiet for a moment, contemplating… "You hear about that new interstate they're building?"

"Yeah, uh… Just a couple miles from here, right?" Fillmore said, standing, "Flo says it's gonna bring in a fuck ton of new customers." He started to take inventory, counting a stack of (completely biodegradable) paper cups.

"I doubt it," Sarge replied, "Most people pass through here just to get to Albuquerque or San Francisco, and the interstate's just gonna-"

"They're still gonna come through, man," Fillmore interrupted quickly, pausing his counting to start over. "We'll probably be retired before folks stop passing through."

"You think?" Sarge chuckled. "Imagine that… Us, retired."

"What a trip, man," Fillmore agreed, tossing him a grin. "I'm gonna get a couple of rocking chairs, y'know? Put 'em out in my yard so we can sit there and bicker, like old folks do."

"I'm not going to sit in your yard, Fillmore."

"Why not? We can look at the flowers when they bloom in the spring, or, uh… watch the sunset and drink a couple beers."

"You don't like beer."

"Yeah, but I'll be an old man." Fillmore shot him a grin, "That's what old men do, dude. They bicker, drink beer, and bicker some more."

Sarge laughed. "You really think that'll be us?"

"Yeah! Why not?"

It seemed… wonderful. He couldn't, wouldn't deny that. Growing old with Fillmore seemed like a dream come true, if he was being honest with himself… But something about it left a sour taste in his mouth, like he knew deep down that it was unrealistic at best.

Sarge felt Fillmore's eyes on him, and met his gaze. Fillmore was grinning, fingers poised on the stack of cups. He always counted in threes…

"Good morning." Fillmore said again. "God, you must have fallen asleep again."

"No, I was just… thinking."

"About what?"

Sarge brushed it off, "Nothing, don't worry about it."

Fillmore hummed distastefully, before, "You doing anything tonight?"

"Same thing I do every night, Fillmore."

"Oh yeah?" The sly reply came, "And what's that?"

Sarge looked at him tiredly, and Fillmore pouted.

"Come on, you don't need to be so mean about hanging out with me, man."

"I wasn't being mean-"

"Broke my little heart."

"Stop that."

"Not until you apologize."

Sarge rolled his eyes. "What are you, twelve?"

"That's mean."

"No it's not!"

"You're gonna make me cry." Fillmore pouted again, "You wouldn't like to see me cry." He scribbled something on a scrap of paper before closing off the counter.

"You're not going to cry."

"That's what you think." Fillmore moved towards him.

Sarge stood. "You're a grown man, you're not going to cry."

"Yes I will, watch." Fillmore started mock-sniffling.

"Stop that."

"Can I get an apology?"

"Ugh. Fine." Sarge groaned, giving in, "Sorry."

"Seal it with a kiss?"

"You're so needy."

"Please?"

Sarge kissed him quickly, then attempted to pull away. Fillmore pulled him back in, throwing his arms around his neck and holding him close.

Sarge finally pulled away. "Is that better?"

Fillmore winked. "I think I need a little more convincing,"

"Later," Sarge said, "Can we have dinner first?"

Fillmore hummed, effortlessly scooping Sarge into a bridal carry (though, not without protest). He was brought into the living space, where he was subsequently thrown on the bed like a ragdoll. Fillmore kissed him again, this time somewhat harshly, positioning himself over top of him.

Sarge was smiling when they broke apart. "I thought we were going to eat?"

"I never agreed to that," Fillmore replied, "Do you have my signature anywhere? No?"

"Fillmore, come on."

He groaned, flopping down on top of Sarge and knocking the wind out of him. "Why do you make me wait like this?"

"Because I'm hungry."

"Fair point." Fillmore stood, and hoisted Sarge to his feet. "I have leftovers I could throw in the oven."

"That's alright."

They cooked and ate somewhat silently, bumping against one another every so often and kicking at each other under the table. They didn't bother to wash up afterwards, tossing Fillmore's dirty dishes in the sink and leaving them to "soak."

It wasn't long until Sarge once again found himself in bed with Fillmore; kissing, touching, reveling in his company. When it started to get steamy, he couldn't help but fear the consequences. What if someone came in, thinking it was open? What if Sheriff decided to call on them? What if-

"Wait, wait, hold on a sec-"

"What?" Fillmore pulled away a little more.

"I, uh-" Sarge laughed, realizing how stupid he was going to sound, "I forgot to lock up my shop."

"You serious?" Fillmore raised his eyebrows, "Don't worry about it, I did it earlier, remember?"

"No, but- what about the  _back_  door?"

Fillmore's eyes turned downward, as though he were looking over the situation and trying to find a reason for him not to go. Finally, he met Sarge's gaze again. "Yeah, you better go lock up."

Sarge rolled off of him, stumbling to his feet. "I'll be back in five minutes," he said, "probably less."

"I'm holding you to that," Fillmore said, "You're such a fuckin' tease sometimes."

Sarge laughed and turned out the beaded curtain, rummaging through his pockets for his keys as he made his way back to the Surplus Hut. It was quick- no longer than one or two minutes. Fillmore would be pleased to see him back so quickly.

As he started making his way back to the geodome, his shadow turned long by the headlights of an oncoming car. Sarge expected it to pass quickly, like most others, however it slowed to a stop next to him. Among the things he'd expected to see that night, a police cruiser was not one of them.

Sheriff glared at him through the open window. He looked strangely serious, especially for such an empty night. "Get in," he said, opening the door for him.

"Sorry, Sheriff, I can't-"

"Get in, Sarge."

Sarge cast a glance back at Fillmore's dome, and looked back at Sheriff. He could hear the record player start up inside Fillmore's dome; some old jazz album he'd found a few weeks before. Nerves ran up and down his spine like cold water, halfway to sending him into a panic.

The police cruiser was weathered, seats worn from overuse by delinquents and teenagers from all over the county, smelling like stale cigarettes despite the air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. Sheriff didn't say anything as he drove off down the Mother Road, finally parking behind the sign marking the border of the town.

"Do you want to tell me what's going on?" Sheriff finally said, sounding more exasperated than he probably meant to.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Damn straight, you do." Sheriff returned, "I knew I'd have to worry about Fillmore, but you? I didn't really think you were the sort to-."

"I'm not."

"Clearly!"

They sat in malcontented silence, staring forward into the desert.

"Look, Sarge," Sheriff said quietly, "If you're going to do it, you have to be careful about it. I don't give a damn that you're sleeping with him, but most people do."

"Who else knows?"

"Not sure. Me, Doc…. Maybe Ramone, but that's just because Fillmore tells him everything-"

Sarge scrubbed a hand over his face, groaning. "Goddamnit."

"It… It's not a bad thing, Sarge," Sheriff said, like he was walking on glass, "It's just… Unexpected, that's all."

"You think it's unexpected?" Sarge laughed bitterly, "Imagine how I feel."

"What?"

"I didn't know this was gonna happen." He replied, "I didn't have a single fuckin' clue.

Sheriff didn't respond, instead turning the key in the ignition and putting the cruiser into drive. "I shouldn't keep you long," he said, "He's probably expecting you back-"

"He is."

Sheriff cast him a sideways glance, before pulling out onto the empty highway. Their return to town was a mere three minute drive, but it seemed much longer than that. The lights were still on when they stopped in front of the geodome, casting a warm orange glow on the grass around it.

Sarge opened the door and got out wordlessly. He moved to go back inside, but Sheriff called after him:

"You two be safe, now," he said.

Sarge turned and met his eye, smirking somewhat. He cast a halfhearted little salute in his direction, before returning through the beaded curtains.

"What took you so long?" Fillmore said. He was lounging on the bed in his boxers, a glass of wine in one hand.

Sarge didn't look at him as he sat heavily on the bed. "Sheriff knows."

"Knows what?" Fillmore asked innocently, sitting up somewhat. "Come on, Sarge, talk to me."

"About us, Fillmore." Sarge said, harsher than he meant to. "He figured it out."

Fillmore opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, but closed it again. He was silent for a long while, as though he were trying to think of the right thing to say. "It's… It's not that big of a deal, man." Fillmore said, curling his fingers around Sarge's own. "He's not going to do anything about it. He's a good man."

"You're sure?" Sarge asked, "What if he's not? What if he turns on us and-"

"Sarge," Fillmore said calmly, patiently. "You're jumping to conclusions. Nothing bad is going to happen." He giggled a little, "If anything, he's just going to give us shit for it now and again."

"What about the others? What if they find out."

"Nothing's going to happen," Fillmore said authoritatively, "I promise."

Fillmore was, indeed, able to convince him of that later that night… But Sarge still had his fears. Sheriff figuring everything out was only the beginning; soon enough, everyone in town would have it figured out.

It's a few days until he brings it up again, pacing around his shop as he's closing up. "We need to be more careful about it, Fillmore. I can't be coming over every night when so many people already know-"

"Sarge, if they had a problem with it, they would have said something by now." Fillmore leaned against the counter, hair pulled back once again. It was getting too long, now falling almost to his shoulders. "Besides, don't you think that we sneak around enough?"

Sarge sighed, resting his head against one of his displays. "It's not going to end well when more people find out," he said authoritatively. "We need to be better about it."

"I'm not gonna argue with you about this, man." Fillmore said, somewhat harshly. "Just forget about it, okay? It'll be fine."

Sarge huffed and raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, okay. Sorry."

They don't talk later that night, instead opting to sit quietly and watch television. A news anchor talks gravely about the situation in Vietnam and the state of democracy in America.

Fillmore cracks when they're lying in bed, trying to sleep. "I'm tired of this, man," he said, "Can't we just agree to disagree?"

"Yeah," Sarge said.

Fillmore rolled over onto his side, resting his head on Sarge's chest. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Sarge said, "I, uh… I'm probably overreacting about it, anyways."

"A little bit." Fillmore kissed his hand, "That's okay, though. You're new to all of this."

They end up making love late into the night. It's past two when they're finally finished, at which they rest for a few minutes before going to clean up.

"Come take a shower with me?" Fillmore offers.

Sarge accepts after little persuasion, and they waddle off to the bathroom together. Showering feels like an almost religious experience. They hold each other under the glow of the warm water, washing each other in an almost loving way.

They're back in bed after around fifteen minutes, cozy in fresh clothing and sheets. They sleep soundly that night, close in each others arms. They wake up late the next morning, apologetic and loving.

"Lets go to Flo's," Fillmore said, "Get some brunch. I'll pay."

"Can't we stay in bed a little longer?"

"That's new." Fillmore laughed. "Sergeant Major Jones, asking to stay in bed."

"I'm comfortable."

"That's reasonable."

When they get around to going, the diner feels ill with anticipation. It's booming with agitated conversation, customers and townsfolk alike all sharing in the negativity. Sarge and Fillmore slide into a booth, exchanging wary glances.

Ramone pushes himself into the seat next to Fillmore, anxiety clear on his face. "You two know the situation with the interstate, right?"

"Yeah, man."

"Of course."

"Okay." He said, "Stanley wants everyone to order more stock. He thinks there's going to be an influx of travelers on our stretch of the road."

"What?" Sarge exclaimed, "That's insane, if anything there's gonna be  _less_ -"

"You don't know that," Fillmore cut him off. "How much are we supposed to get?"

"He told me to double my order." Ramone scrubbed a hand across his face. "This better pay off, man."

"What's got you so worried?" Fillmore asked.

"Flo's been buggin' out about this whole thing. It's the only thing she's talked about for the past three-or-so days." He sighed loudly, "In fact, I think it's been dividing up the whole town.

Sarge and Fillmore exchanged glances.

"It really seems like it," Fillmore agreed.

The tension didn't seem to hinder the happy-go-lucky facade of the town. A few days later, a banner was raised in favor of the new interstate travelers, hanging like a guillotine over the mother road. Sarge went with Fillmore to watch it go up, but found himself more focused on the possibility of failure. His shipment would be coming in next Wednesday, and it was twice as much at Stanley's request.

"It's gonna be okay, man." Fillmore said, eyes fixed on the banner.

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." Fillmore's hand brushed his own, "And if it's not… you can't do anything to help it."

"That's not comforting."

"It's okay," Fillmore said. "Come on, let's go home."

They ended up in front of the television again, not talking. Same old shit: protesting at the pentagon, losing the war in Vietnam. Attrition, unnecessary violence, and more attrition. Against it all, Sarge found it increasingly difficult to believe in what Fillmore had said.

Fillmore took his hand and squeezed it.  _It's going to be okay._


	7. Chapter 7

It's a cold, gray day in November when the travelers stop passing through.

Somehow, Sarge couldn't bring himself to believe it. None of it felt exactly real- more like something out of a bad dream. This was a nightmare, nothing more. He would wake up in the morning, safe and warm in Fillmore's bed, with the constant, loving sound of traffic outside.

His denial felt violent, like he was looking into the grinning face of truth and refusing to believe. His life spiraled out of control in front of his very eyes, losing himself in a horrible white void of rent and taxes and "what the hell do we do now?"

"Sarge?"

Fillmore was staring at him, brown eyes wide with worry. "Sarge, buddy, you're scaring me."

Buddy. Sarge hated that, he really did. It matched the horrible hippie-hair that fell past Fillmore's shoulders, curling ever-so-slightly at the ends. They were eating dinner. That's right, they were eating dinner. It had been a week since the road had been abandoned. There had been nobody. Complete silence.

"Sarge?"

"Yes?"

Fillmore was still staring at him. Loving, earnest… understanding. "It's gonna be okay, man."

"It's hard for everyone, man," He continued, "We'll figure something out, promise."

Sarge doesn't reply. What was there to say? His whole world had crumbled around him again, for what seemed like the hundredth time that year. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't find it in himself to be optimistic. It was just one bad thing after another, these days.

Christmastime comes, and the townsfolk do their best. Wreaths are hung on storefronts, lights are hung from the streetlamps… Despite the festivity, however, it's not at all merry. The travelers still had not returned, despite their hopes for the winter season.

Sarge spent Christmas Eve with Fillmore, watching their television set. It was a cartoon, a special or something like that. There's a backdrop of white snow, with melancholy piano humming in the background.

 _"Actually, Lucy, my trouble is Christmas. I just don't understand it,"_ Says the little boy in the brown hat, _"Instead of feeling happy, I feel sorta let down."_

 _"You need involvement!"_ Replied the little girl in the yellow coat, _"You need to get involved in some real Christmas project!"_

Sarge's head was on Fillmore's shoulder, fingers interlocked. It was quiet, wonderful… almost happy.

"Hey," Fillmore said, nudging him, "It's our first Christmas together, you know that?"

"That's nice," Sarge replied, "First of how many?"

"Oh, who knows?"

"Me. It's our last," Sarge deadpanned, and then laughed. "Oh, stop pouting. I'm kidding."

"That's bad vibes, man," Fillmore frowned, "Better stop that."

"I'll stop."

"Good, thank you."

They settled in again, turning their attention back to the television. It was quiet, wonderful… and extremely happy.

New Years Eve fell on a Sunday, only a week later. There was a celebration over at Flo's, complete with drinks and food and party streamers all over the place. Everyone seemed to be getting along just fine, to Sarge's surprise. He found himself standing alone by the punch bowl, champagne in hand. Guido was acting as the DJ that night, a stack of forty-five inch records comically towering over him.

"Evening, Sergeant."

Sarge jumped halfway out of his skin. "Sheriff!" He laughed a little, "You snuck up on me."

"Oh, my bad," Sheriff smacked him on the back, "How are you holding up?"

"Erm… Just fine. Yourself?"

"Oh, fine… Nice to have a celebration like this, huh?" He took a small sip of his wine, which he seemed to have been nursing for a while.

"Yes, it is." Sarge agreed.

"You talked to Fillmore recently?"

Sarge's heart dropped in his chest. He had forgotten…. "Erm, yes. He's just fine."

Sheriff cast him a sideways glance. "You two okay?"

"Yes, of course," Sarge replied through gritted teeth, "Why wouldn't we be?"

"Just checking in, Sergeant," Sheriff said dismissively, "You two are an odd pair, and, well… this is a rough time for everyone."

"We're just fine," Sarge replied, somehow loosening up, "Um… Thank you."

"Of course, Sarge. You're my friend." Sheriff took another sip of his wine and cringed. "I'm off then. Gotta make sure no delinquent kids are speeding' around out there."

"Good luck, Sheriff." Sarge half-saluted, and watched as Sheriff retreated out the front door.

"What did he want?" Fillmore asked, seeming to appear out of nowhere.

Sarge (once again) jumped halfway out of his skin before responding: "Just wanted to know if we were doing okay."

"That was nice of him." Fillmore took a large drink of (what appeared to be) a daiquiri.

_Life could be a dream, Life could be a dream…!_

"Oh, hey," Fillmore said, "I like this song. Wanna dance?"

"Huh?" Sarge questioned, "Fillmore, we're in public."

"So? Who gives a fuck?" Fillmore snorted, "They'd probably just think we're drunk anyways."

"No, erm…" Sarge sighed, "It's indecent. We shouldn't."

Fillmore shrugged. "Your loss, man." He set his daiquiri down on the punch table and moved to the dance floor, where he seemed to steal Ramone's dance from Flo. Ramone huffed, and then allowed it.

Sarge couldn't help but smile as he watched them dance together. Fillmore was really, very handsome; he looked great while dancing. By the time the song had finished, he had almost begun to regret his decision to turn down the dance.

Fillmore grinned and returned to him, collecting his drink and taking a large swig of it. "Hey, whaddya say we get out of here and have a smoke?"

"You sure?"

Fillmore groaned, "Man, first you turn down my offer to dance, and now you don't even want to smoke with me?"

"Ugh, fine." Sarge grinned, "Let's go."

They exited together out the front door, and went to the side of the building to smoke.

"You got a light?" Fillmore asked, pulling out his pack of Malboros.

"Yeah," Sarge replied, fishing around for one in his pockets.

Their mouths got very close as Sarge lit their cigarettes together, and very far once they had made their first puffs. Slowly, in the dark, his hand found Fillmore's.

"You're a real ladykiller, huh?" Sarge teased.

"Only for you," Fillmore grinned. "A real, uh… Mankiller."

"That doesn't sound right."

Fillmore frowned. "No, you're right… How about, uh…"

"I get your point," Sarge said.

"I really wished you woulda danced with me, Sarge." Fillmore sighed, "It would have been… Really, really nice, man."

"I, uh… I'm sorry."

"It's okay, man. I just… I wish we could do things in public." He took a slow drag from his cigarette, "Y'know, like normal people."

"I do too."

"Maybe one day we will. Maybe one day I'll be able to take you dancing or out to dinner, or something."

"You think?"

Fillmore smiled at him, "Yeah, definitely. And if not, I'll do it anyways."

Sarge smiled, flattered. An idea struck him, and he tugged on Fillmore's hand. "Come on, I'm taking you home."

"What about the party?" Fillmore asked.

"We can go back after, I just…"

Fillmore grinned widely, "Sergeant Jones, are you trying to romance me?"

Sarge felt his face go red. "No, just… Just come on."

Minutes later, he dragged Fillmore through the beaded curtains of the geodome and into their living space. He started rifling through Fillmore's collections of LPs, before finally settling on one. He switched the speed on the turntable, and the needle on the record.

He stood back up and faced Fillmore. He didn't know why he was anxious, but… "Wanna dance?" He asked, offering his hand.

Fillmore looked stunned, but grinned the widest and happiest grin that Sarge had ever seen. "Yeah, man. Wouldn't miss it."

Fillmore took the lead, placing his arms around Sarge's neck and pulling him in close. They swayed gently to the music, Fillmore humming along gently.

_You're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off of you…_

Sarge laid his head on Fillmore's shoulder, letting his eyes slip closed. The music was like a lullaby to his soul, allowing him to forget about everything that had been bothering him. They continued to sway in time with the music, even as the horns and drums crescendoed and the beat grew more intense.

Fillmore suddenly pulled away, swinging him wildly while singing along loudly _: "I love you baby! And if it's quite alright, I need you baby, to warm a lonely night!"_

Sarge laughed as they spun together, listening as Fillmore continued to shout the lyrics at the top of his voice, _"And let me love you, baby, let me love you!"_

Fillmore pulled him in again as the music quieted down, kissing him passionately. They continued on through the end of the song, still pressed together long after the LP had stopped.

When they finally broke apart, Fillmore looked somewhat anticipatory. He pulled Sarge into a hug, and quietly muttered something that sounded almost like "I love you."

Sarge was stunned. He felt as though he should say something back, but… he couldn't bring himself to say anything. So he tilted his head up and kissed him softly, hoping that it would speak enough for him.

"Come to bed with me?" He asked.

"I'd love to," Fillmore replied.

The next couple days were better than usual. He and Fillmore become something like honeymooners, taking every opportunity they have to croon and make love. It was strange, considering how casual it had been over the last months… but it was nice.

It, obviously, would not last. Life would catch up to them eventually.

"I don't know how we're going to handle this, Fillmore," Sarge said, "We gotta figure something out soon-"

"Sarge," Fillmore said gently, kindly, "We have time, buddy."

"I can't understand how you're so relaxed about all of this." Sarge replied, "It's been months since we've seen any customers. We're all losing money."

"I know that," Fillmore said, "But we have plenty of time to consider our options before panicking."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"I don't know yet. I was just saying that we have all the time in the world." Despite it all, Fillmore smiled at him. "It'll be okay, don't worry."

Sarge relented. He didn't have the energy to argue, anyways.

Over the next couple of days, Sarge grew to resent Fillmore's optimism. Things were bad- downright horrible- yet, he somehow found the strength to keep his happiness up. Maybe that's just how he's coping, Sarge thought, frowning at how Fillmore hummed along to the music while he tidied up his house.

The unwanted peace and quiet also gave him many opportunities to reflect on their relationship. Not that he wanted to, of course; he was very happy with Fillmore. But sometimes, if he thought about it too much… Nevermind. It isn't good to think about that kind of stuff, anyways. He'd been with Fillmore for just over seven months, and he wasn't going to risk his relationship over his intrusive thoughts. Fillmore was just… trying his best. Just like everyone.

He felt as though he were on the verge of something one Friday night. It was unusually cold, driving him to wear a sweatshirt upon closing up his shop for the night. Fillmore was expecting him, as usual.

Sarge was in high spirits as he entered the geodome, leaning over the counter to kiss Fillmore on the cheek. "How's your day?" he asked.

"Oh, it's alright," Fillmore said. He sounded strangely sad.

"Are you sure? You sound upset."

"Yeah, of course," Fillmore smiled nervously, "I'm exhausted, man."

He turned back to recounting his inventory, a deep frown on his face. Fillmore's mood continued on through the evening while they ate dinner. Sarge was driven to turn on the radio just to fill the silence; it was some old pop station, playing the music the ladies had liked back when he was in high school.

They cleaned up together, and Fillmore fixed them both a cup of coffee. He then sat him back down at the table, looking incredibly scared.

"I have something I've been meaning to ask you," Fillmore said.

"What is it?"

Fillmore put his head in his hands and sighed loudly. He looked so strangely solemn as he raised his head a few moments later, "Move back to San Francisco with me."

"Fillmore…"

"We can start a new life out there!" His eyes sparkled excitedly as he stood, as though he were going to dance around the room, "We can get ourselves a little apartment that faces the bay, and we can open our own little shop down there and-" He deflated a little, "and I know you're worried about money, but I promise- I really, really promise that we'll be able to make ends meet."

"Fillmore, I can't."

"Why not?" Fillmore cried, "Listen, it's the only way-"

"It's not the only way!"

"Sarge, you're being delusional," Fillmore said, returning himself to his seat, "They're not coming back."

"I don't give a damn!" Sarge snapped, "I spent three months building a life out here, only for you to tell me we need to move?"

"I didn't ask you to stay here-"

"The hell you did!"

"Calm down, man!" Fillmore cried, "I'm not going to get into a fight about this."

Sarge scrubbed a hand across his face. "Okay. Fine. I'm sorry."

"That's okay." Fillmore sighed a little, reaching one hand across the table to rest upon Sarge's own. "You've been through alot of change, I understand why you're upset."

The hand was not comforting. If anything, it just made Sarge more angry. He sat there, silently fuming, as Fillmore nervously sipped at his coffee.

"It's going to be okay," Fillmore said, "I promise."

"Stop." Sarge spat. "Just- just stop."

Fillmore stared at him, eyes wide. "What?"

"Stop acting like everything's fine!"

"Sarge, one of us needs to keep a level head in this situation." Fillmore said calmly, "I don't exactly have the liberty to bug out about it."

Sarge deflated, staring down into his coffee like it might offer some answers.

"Can I ask you something?" Fillmore said, "What's wrong with moving? Aside from, you know, the fact that you don't have the money."

"There's nothing wrong with it," Sarge replied, "I…. I don't know if I can see it happening."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Put yourself in my situation, please," Sarge felt his anger return, "Six months ago, I was an officer. Then I got fuckin' discharged, moved here, and now everythings gone and fucked itself over again." He gestured wildly with his hands, "I'm constantly losing my damn mind about how I'm supposed to turn my life around again."

"Yes, but… Moving could be good for you, if that's what you're concerned about." Fillmore continued with his even, infuriating tone, "You'll see once we get out there, I promise. Everything's just gonna get better, once we get outta here-"

"I'm not going to move with you, Fillmore!"

"Fine! Okay." Fillmore raised his hands in surrender, "Sorry for asking, man. I just didn't feel like breaking up with you tonight."

"What the fuck?"

"I wasn't gonna leave you to move away," Fillmore said, defeated, "I wanted you to come with 'cause I thought we were in this together." He sighed, crossing his arms, "Guess not, man."

"You know what?" Sarge spat, "This wasn't real, none of it. You've been using me the whole time-"

"Using you!" Fillmore repeated, "What on God's green earth-"

"You know damn well it's true!" Sarge said, "The butte, Fillmore. Fourth of July. What the hell was that?"

"It was just a stupid crush, man!" Fillmore said, "God, why can't you just drop it? That was months ago!"

"That doesn't matter," Sarge countered, "Not when this whole thing's been a lie the whole time."

Fillmore stared at him, defeated. Sarge stood, grabbing his coat.

"Where are you going?" Fillmore asked meekly.

"Home."

"I- I'm sorry," Fillmore said dumbly.

The Ronettes are on the radio as they're suddenly quiet. _I'll make you happy, baby… Just wait and see._ Sarge can feel his chest tightening, the lump in his throat. This needed to be done. He couldn't go on like this, he couldn't….

"Sarge," Fillmore begs, voice meek and afraid.

And then… He left. Just like that, he left. Out the beaded curtains and down the street to his own shop, his own home. The door locked behind him with a satisfying click, and the fluorescent lights buzzed to life. He undressed and got in bed alone, staring at the ceiling with malcontent.

He didn't sleep that night, but he certainly tried. He got out of bed and cooked himself breakfast close to six in the morning (there's hardly anything in his kitchen, he'd been spending too many nights at Fillmore's), and quietly goes through his opening procedures. He checked inventory, organized shelves…

And then, he waited for customers, staring out into the empty street through his shop window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for being so slow to updating, folks! the story's almost over, so i'll try and be better about it :)


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